


Pull the Pillars Down

by Sanguis



Series: Chaos & Sunlight [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual Characters, Bisexual Harry, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Draco learns to be decent, F/F, F/M, Harry and Hermione are Black, M/M, Multi, Pre-Slash, some implied Wolfstar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-07-10 15:21:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 60,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15952085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanguis/pseuds/Sanguis
Summary: Harry has a difficult enough summer without the Ministry placing Dolores Umbridge in a teaching position. In fact, he has a difficult year ahead of him.A new addition to the roster of fifth-years might just make things a tad more interesting. And fortunately, Umbridge's reign runs much shorter than planned.





	1. The Feast

**Author's Note:**

> Originally titled 'I Downloaded a Book for This' (because I did, in fact, download a book for this), this is me...being inspired by Flamethrower's Of a Linear Circle (Go read it please!!!!). This idea has been sitting in my brain for months, and surprisingly took only three intensive weeks of writing. Should've done this for NaNoWriMo tbh.
> 
> In this chapter and the other ones to come, I quote liberally from the original source (Harry Potter & the Order of the Phoenix). This applies exclusively to dialogue, although some other things may have slipped through. So if at some point you think, "Hey!", then yes, that came from the book. Directly.

The sight of Hogwarts does a lot to settle some of Harry’s nerves; summer had been far from kind to him, between the Dursleys and the draught, Dementors and the hearing. Now, perhaps, he can finally leave that behind.

His eyes fall on the carriages behind him—yes, those skeletal black horses are still there in all their bat-winged eeriness. Aside from Luna Lovegood, nobody had made mention of them before, and Harry isn’t sure what to make of that. _But she’d said they’ve always been there_ , and now for whatever inexplicable reason, Harry could see them too.

“Going mad after all,” he mutters.

Ron nudges him along, and they hurry up the stones to the entrance.

The warmth hits Harry first, and then the familiar lights, the arch of the ceiling. Once in the Great Hall, students fill the tables quickly. Luna wanders away to join the Ravenclaws, Ginny joins friends from her year. Harry, Ron, Hermione and Neville sit together, and Harry barely acknowledges those around him; he looks to the staff table. Hagrid’s not there.

“He can’t have left,” Ron says when Harry points to Hagrid’s absence.

“You don’t think he’s hurt, do you?” Hermione sounds uneasy. Her eyes are set on the staff table too, only briefly turn to Harry when he replies in the negative.

They spot _her_ at the same time.

“That’s that Umbridge woman,” Harry says sharply, “she was at my hearing. She works for Fudge.”

Umbridge looks nearly exactly as she had then, too—pallid, eyes round and large. She seems almost toad-like, and the pink Alice band in her mousy brown hair doesn't exactly help her look any more pleasant, not with the matching fluffy cardigan.

“What’s she doing here, then?” Hermione asks. “Surely, it can’t that…”

Professor McGonagall enters, and with her a long line of first-years. They look impossibly tiny to Harry’s eyes, faces pinched in fear, sometimes followed by awe when their eyes find the ceiling. It’s not until the whispers start that Harry notices something _really_ different—the student keeping pace with McGonagall, robes swishing.

At least, Harry assumes it’s a student. They look to be about the same age as he, expression neutral almost on the side of disinterest. He’s never seen them before, he’s sure of it, and yet they seem oddly familiar—something in their features, he thinks, something in the short, curly dark hair and the bronze skin.

“Who is that?” he whispers to Hermione. Her frown is almost furious and she doesn’t answer, but from the other whispers Harry catches, nobody seems to know who this new student is, if they’re even new.

A hush falls when Professor McGonagall places the Sorting Hat upon the stool. The gaggle of new students waits anxiously. Harry sympathises; he’d stood there once, terrified of what awaited him. The elder student—boy or girl, Harry finds it hard to tell, but they certainly are the pretty sort—they’d joined the first-years, arms crossed and brow arched as they take in the Hat.

And then the Hat starts to sing.

In times of old when I was new  
And Hogwarts barely started  
The founders of our noble school  
Thought never to be parted:  
United by a common goal,  
They had the selfsame yearning,  
To make the world’s best magic school  
And pass along their learning.  
“Together we will build and teach!”  
The four good friends decided  
And never did they dream that they  
Might someday be divided,  
For were there such friends anywhere  
As Slytherin and Gryffindor?  
Unless it was the second pair  
Of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw?  
To Slytherin I must commend  
The cunning and ambitious,  
And clever, too, are they I send  
To the noble house of serpents  
For Gryffindor are those that have  
In them, bravery for certain  
Daring, nerve and chivalry belong,  
To these lions of the East!  
To Hufflepuff I send along  
The loyal and the just  
On these children from the North she bestowed  
Tolerance and dedication!  
Now to Ravenclaw I do propose  
The wise and keen for learning,  
But the creative, too, find their home  
In the raven’s lofty tower  
Thus the Houses and their founders  
Retained friendships firm and true.  
They accepted all, and taught them too  
So Hogwarts worked in harmony  
For several happy years.  
But old they grew, soon they passed,  
And with the turn of centuries  
Stories warped and discredit brought  
Made friends out to be enemies.  
The Houses that, like pillars four,  
Had once held up our school,  
Now turned upon each other and,  
Divided, sought to rule.  
And now the Sorting Hat is here  
And you all know the score:  
I sort you into Houses  
Because that is what I’m for,  
But this year I’ll go further,  
Listen closely to my song:  
Though condemned I am to split you  
Still I worry that it’s wrong,  
Though I must fulfill my duty  
And must quarter every year  
Still I wonder whether sorting  
May not bring the end I fear.  
Oh, know the perils, read the signs,  
The warning history shows,  
For our Hogwarts is in danger  
From external, deadly foes  
And we must unite inside her  
Or we’ll crumble from within.  
I have told you, I have warned you…  
Let the Sorting now begin.

Even as the students clap, Harry can hear them whisper. His ears still ring with the song; he’d expected simple descriptions of the houses—that’s what the Hat does in these songs. The added bit of history seems out of place and almost _wrong_ to Harry’s mind, though he can’t for the life of him pinpoint why.

Harry says, “Well that was—”

“Bloody strange,” Ron finishes. They look to Hermione for comment, but their friend is deep in thought, and they’ve learnt better than to disturb her.

“It’s a warning,” Nearly Headless Nick says. He startles the soul out of Harry, too. “The Hat feels—”

Whatever he’d thought to say, he quiets when he catches Professor McGonagall’s look. Harry can’t fault him; if ever there were eyes that could set one on fire, he’s certain his Head of House possesses them. The Hall quiets.

“Abercombie, Euan!” Professor McGonagall calls.

The list is unbearably long. Harry claps along enthusiastically for the new, tiny Gryffindors, but the sorting doesn’t go quick enough for his stomach. It grumbles horribly—or is that Ron? That must be Ron. When Harry glances at his best mate, Ron has a certain look about him of a man ready to be done with it all and have his dinner. Harry empathises.

Then, Professor McGonagall says, “Zaahir, Salah.”

The not-first-year moves forward. She—Harry feels he can safely assume that now—she sits on the stool in an elegant manner that should be rather impossible, straight backed, with her ankles crossed. For some reason, Harry thinks she looks _amused_.

The seconds tick by. After a solid minute, the Hall grows restless, and Harry finds himself drumming away at the table with his fingers. Oddly, he thinks back of his own sorting, and suddenly he’s quite sorry he’d been a hat-stall; everyone had had to wait on him to convince the hat not to sort him in Slytherin, and whilst he stands by that, it’s absolutely horrible to wait on someone when dinner is so, so near, and he’s absolutely famished.

“Sure’s taking its time,” Neville mutters next to him. On Harry’s left, Ron makes a frustrated, assenting noise.

“It’s taking longer than Harry did,” Hermione remarks unhappily.

Even Professor McGonagall has started to look cross—more so than usual. It’s possible she’s urging the Hat on with just her glare, or perhaps she’s decided to finally put the fire-starting capabilities of her eyes to use, and wouldn’t _that_ be an amusing start of the feast.

Entirely out of the blue, Zaahir giggles. “Come on now, old Hat” she says, her voice somehow clear despite its softness, “you know where you want to sort me.”

The Hat grumbles, then, _“SLYTHERIN!”_

Several students, Harry included, breathe a sigh of relief. With Zaahir done, only “Zeller, Rose,” remains, and she’s neatly sorted into Hufflepuff in a matter of seconds. It feels almost surreal.

Harry catches Millicent Bulstrode lean over and ask Zaahir something. Whatever the answer is, Bulstrode looks at Zaahir as if the newly minted Slytherin is entirely bonkers.

Dumbledore rises to his feet. “To our newcomers—welcome! To our old hands,” he beams a wide smile, “welcome back! You may have noticed we have a new student too tall to be a first-year,” he gestures amiably at Slytherin table, where Zaahir bows her head, “Miss Zaahir has come to us from Spain, as per her late parents’ wishes, to join the fifth-years. Now, there is a time for speech making, but this is not it. Tuck in!”

They dig in with gusto. Harry almost follows Ron’s lead in stuffing his face so full it could burst, but actually enjoying the food before him wins out, along with the revolted look Hermione sends Ron between her own bites.

As Hermione grills Nearly Headless Nick about the Sorting Hat’s warning, Harry finds his eyes flitting over to Slytherin table—to Zaahir, who now entertains a first-year by changing the colour of her hair from lime green to bright pink, to pale purple. It’s just like Tonks, except Zaahir uses her wand, at one point conjuring all sorts of flowers into her teal hair.

“The hat always gives the same advice, in times of danger,” Harry hears Nearly Headless tell Hermione, “‘Stand together. Be united.’”

“What, it wants us all to be friends?” Harry says. He glances over at where Malfoy sits, with his pointy face and too-blond hair. Absolute git. “Right.” 

Ron nods in agreement, his mouth packed full of food. “Raion may.” 

“Now, now,” says Nick, with a disgusted glance at Ron, “there’s merit in what the Hat says. Hogwarts is at its strongest when the houses work together, laying the rivalries aside. Even us ghosts have friendships despite our houses.”

At their three skeptical looks, Nearly Headless Nick huffs. Harry glances again at Malfoy and makes a face; friends with _that?_ Fat chance.

Once the students have had their fill of dinner and the plates have disappeared, Dumbledore stands again. Harry only half-listens; his bed awaits him up in Gryffindor tower, and it’s been a rather long day. Most of what the headmaster has to say is more relevant to the first-years, anyway, though even they have a look about them like they won’t be awake for very much longer. Harry sees Abercombie yawn, and down the table, Dennis Creevey pokes his brother Colin awake.

“We have two new staff members this year,” Dumbledore announces. Harry straightens up, suddenly alert. “It is a great pleasure to have Professor Grubby-Plank once again as she teaches Care of Magical Creatures. And, of course, we are glad to have Professor Umbridge as our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

He doesn’t say for _how long Grubby-Plank_ will be teaching Care of Magical Creatures, and something unpleasant settles in the pit of Harry’s stomach. Hermione sends him a worried look; Ron doesn’t seem to happy either. Hagrid better be coming back.

As for Umbridge... _well_ , Harry will have to wait and see how he feels about that.

Dumbledore says, “Tryouts for Quidditch—”

“Hem hem.”

Harry nearly flinches. Despite her shortness, Umbridge is easy enough to find again at the table, something her pink attire helps with exponentially. Dumbledore looks at her questioningly through another “hem hem” before he sits back down, granting Professor Umbridge the stage.

“Well, it is lovely to be back at Hogwarts, I must say!”

She speaks to them in a breathy, high-pitched, girl-ish voice that suits her no better than the shade of pink she wears. From the corner of his eye, Harry sees Hermione lean further and further back with every second, as if she can somehow escape the room unnoticed if she does it by inches. It would be rather genius, really, if it works; Harry is in fact considering how to join her in the endeavour.

Umbridge says, “...I’m sure we’ll be very good friends!”

If there is one thing Harry is absolutely certain of, it is that he absolutely loathes her and the condescending way she speaks to them as if they’re a collective of toddlers. Around him, many seem to share the sentiment.

“As long as I needn't be friends with that hideous cardigan,” Parvati whispers to her sister. Their shoulders shake from their giggles, but to their credit, they don’t make noise.

Up at the staff table, Umbridge clears her throat, which seems to magically cure her voice of its breathiness when she continues, “The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance. The rare gifts with which you were born may come to nothing if not nurtured and honed by careful instruction. The ancient skills unique to the Wizarding community…”

Harry stops listening at a certain point, and he’s not the only one. He spots Luna with The Quibbler in front of her face. The Patil sisters have struck up a conversation full of giggles with Lavender Brown. The hall fills with the soft noise of conversation, though Umbridge does not seem to take notice that she’s lost her audience. Even Malfoy has found entertainment in chatting with Blaise Zabini, whilst Pansy Parkinson lazily curls her hair around her finger.

The only two students who seem to be paying attention are Zaahir and Hermione. Harry finds it difficult to parse Umbridge’s words, but whatever they are Hermione is not pleased. Zaahir’s expression has lost its neutrality due to her raised eyebrows. Harry takes some amusement from watching them inch higher and higher.

The staff pays attention, too. Dumbledore is alert, taking in every word. Around him, the other professors watch with expressions varying from boredom to Snape’s absolutely murderous expression. Harry finds it somewhat disturbing that he and Snape agree on something. _And it would be kind of funny of he were to strangle her._

Dumbledore applauds. Harry reels back to attention, clapping along as awkwardly as the others. Some of the staff only bother to give one or two claps.

“Thank you, Professor Umbridge,” says Dumbledore, “that was very illuminating. Now,” he continues where he left off.

“Yes, illuminating,” Hermione says between her teeth.

Affronted, Ron says, “You enjoyed that?”

“Illuminating and enjoyable are two vastly different things, Ronald,” Hermione says archly. “No. Weren’t you paying attention? It makes sense now why she’s here.”

Harry raises a brow. “Does it?” He really _hadn’t_ paid attention.

“Yes,” Hermione says, “The Ministry’s meddling with Hogwarts.”

He hadn’t expected her to say that, but the longer he stares at her in disbelief, the more sense her words make. Over the course of two months, Minister Fudge has done his utmost best to discredit Dumbledore, in absolute refusal of Voldemort’s return. And hadn’t Dumbledore said, at the hearing, that the Ministry has no authority to punish Hogwarts students? Well, now someone from the Ministry is right here.

The movement around them alerts them to the end of the feast. Harry is almost glad for it, until he has to split from Ron and Hermione—they’re prefects now, and they’re to lead the first-years away.

The first-years who won’t stop staring at Harry as if he’s the most frightening thing in the school, if not the earth.

It dawns on Harry then—and it’s not like Ron and Hermione hadn’t warned him, it’s just that he hasn’t seen the papers himself yet, hasn't really thought about it what with the hearing and getting to Hogwarts, with getting _answers_ from the people he’d barely heard from over summer. But now, as he walks back with Neville, he sees the wayward glances and hears the whispers and—

He’s a pariah again.


	2. The Toad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Possibly an insult to toads everywhere, Harry learns quickly.

Their starting schedule is absolutely atrocious—History of Magic, double Potions, Divination, and double Defence. Harry isn’t sure what’s  worse—double Potions with Snape or Defence with Umbridge, but since he actually _knows_ Snape and their mutual enmity, he settles for that.

At least he has Quidditch tryouts with the team on Friday, but that’s _Friday._ It’s a bit far out still.

From the Ravenclaw table, Harry sees Cho Chang wave at him. She smiles when he returns the gesture, then turns to the girl seated next to her. It’s...nice. Cho has, perhaps, the most reason to resent him; after all, he’d emerged from the maze last year, dragging Cedric’s lifeless body with him, and she’d been dating Cedric, hadn’t she? But instead of hating him, she smiles.

Harry glares dourly at Seamus’ profile. Yesterday, Seamus had made it quite clear what he thinks of Harry, _“he’s a madman,”_ he’d said to Ron, after they’d gotten into a row, “ _and you’re a madman too for believing him”._

And Harry’s not blind. He’s seen how other students stare at him, whispering. It’s barely been a day at Hogwarts, and it’s like second year again, when he’d accidentally revealed he’s a parselmouth. It’s like last year, when he’d got thrown into the Tournament against his will. _Will it ever cease._

One year. Just one year where he isn’t the centre of attention—the awful kind.

He trudges along with Ron and Hermione to History. Binns drones on about the Giant wars, and for a solid moment Harry can almost see how interesting the subject could be—like, the kind of simple misunderstandings that could lead to war  and the effects it later had on certain relations—except, he can’t quite follow, because it’s _Binns_ . He tries to take notes, but they turn into doodles, and then it’s a game of hangman with Ron, and _hopefully_ the book is helpful later in explaining what Binns could never pass on to Harry’s brain.

“Come on,” Ron begs when Hermione threatens not to share her notes. “It’s not like we don’t try. And we’d fail our O.W.L.s!”

Hermione sniffs. “Maybe you’d deserve it.”

Harry shrugs, changes the subject. “What do you reckon Snape’ll inflict on us today?”

Ron grimaces. “Something difficult, no doubt. We’ve just come off our holidays; he’ll want to throw us off balance.”

“Well, we do have to sit our O.W.L.s,” Hermione remarks. “I’d bet he’ll be even more strict than usual.”

 _Great_ , thinks Harry. That would just translate it Snape hating him even more, probably. It’d be half a miracle if Harry passes the class with good marks, but God if he isn’t going to try out of sheer spite.

They file into the Potions classroom, seeking out their usual place at the back. Snape makes his appearance shortly thereafter, robes billowing behind him dramatically. It’d almost be cool if it weren’t...well, Snape.

And as Snape impresses upon them the importance of their O.W.L.s, Harry takes some delight from the thought that this may very well be the last year he has to sit in this classroom. He should make it a goal to pass at least this.

“Today,” Snape intones, “you will brew the Draught of Peace. A potion to calm anxiety and soothe agitation. This requires precision; if at any time you overdo it, the drinker may well sleep indefinitely. Pay attention.” He gestures at the board, where the instruction appear with a wave of his hand.

Harry squints at the board. The trouble with sitting at the back, even if it keeps him far from Snape, is that the board is not always entirely legible. Granted, Snape’s handwriting _is_ larger than most of Harry’s primary school teachers had ever bothered to write, and still he can’t always read all of it.

Ruefully, he notes that Ron had been too right. It’s a rather fussy potion, this Draught of Peace—simmer here, simmer there, turn clockwise and then anti-clockwise. At least he’s certain he’s got all the right ingredients; Snape had been so kind as to label them beforehand.

Some thirty minutes in, there’s a commotion in front of him, near Goyle’s cauldron. When Harry looks over, Zaahir has her wand drawn at, pointed at the cauldron in question. The glimmer of a shield encompases Goyle’s cauldron before it becomes unnoticeable to the eye. What is, however, very noticeable, are the flames trying to spew out of the cauldron with a vengeance, held back neatly by the shield. Zaahir looks at Goyle as if she wants to hit him. Or strangle him; it’s difficult to tell.

“Did you even read the instructions?” she says between her teeth. “Simmer for seven minutes, Goyle. _Simmer_. Then you add the sap of Hellebore.”

As Snape sweeps over to Goyle’s cauldron, face like a brewing storm, Harry squints at the board. The fumes and gases have made it a bit more difficult to read than usual, but on line three it says ‘‘Add powdered moonstone, stir three times counterclockwise, allow to simmer for seven minutes, then add two drops of syrup of hellebore”. He hasn’t added the hellebore. Yet.

He does so quickly, as he was about to move to the fourth step and potentially botch the entire potion. Thank the heavens Goyle had done that before Harry could.

“Well,” Snape says from where he inspects Goyle’s potion. “It appears miss Zaahir has saved both your potion and all of our collective hides. This potion is unstable, mr Goyle; either fix it, or start anew.” He glides back to his desk.

With a relieved sigh, Harry continues to fiddle with his own potion. It’s so precise in its quantities and actions, so _specific_. Harry would mind less if Snape weren’t overseeing it all with his impassive, judgemental face, undoubtedly waiting for Harry to fail; it’s rather too much like trying to cook perfect omelets under Aunt Petunia’s disapproving gaze. Things would be so much better once he’s done with his O.W.L.s and can drop potions altogether.

With ten minutes left, Snape calls out, “Your potions should exude a silver vapour.”

Harry’s is...light grey, he’s sure. It’s not quite silver, but it’s not entirely grey either. He must’ve miscalculated somewhere. Ron’s is spewing unpleasant green sparks. Hermione’s is, of course, perfect. Over yonder, Seamus tries profusely to prod the flames under his cauldron, and Harry would feel sorry for him, he would, but Seamus has made it rather clear he thinks Harry is insane and a liar.

Snape comes gliding down the inspect their cauldrons, and Harry feels his shoulders tense.  Hermione receives no comment, not that Snape seems pleased. He stares down at Harry’s potion, then gives Harry a look of distaste and says, “Passable,” as if he’d just swallowed a snail. Harry smiles nastily back at him.

Snape narrows his eyes. “Don't look so proud, Mr Potter. While not a disaster by your standards, this potion is still abhorrently subpar.”

It's like he’s daring Harry to flip him off, not that Harry’s going to fall for that.

Neville doesn't get off so easy. His cauldron contains what appears liquid cement, and since apparently Snape couldn't get his dose of bothering Harry, he takes it out on the next best thing. Person. Neville looks pale as death at the end of it.

With the class done, they hand in a vial of their potions and leave for lunch. For all that they’ve just had potions, Harry’s in a good mood.

“Well,” says Hermione. “That went better than expected.”

“Yeah, for you, maybe,” Ron says darkly. “You made a perfect potion. I thought Snape was going to flay me when he saw mine.”

Exasperated, Hermione says, “Then it’s good that he didn’t, isn’t it? Though he was truly unfair to Neville.”

Harry nods. “It’s not like his potion was the worst. Goyle’s still caught fire when he put it in a vial.”

“I wonder how he did that? There's nothing inherently volatile or flammable about any of the ingredients.”

Ron looks at her sideways. “How would you know?”

“I _read.”_

Ron grimaces. “Reading. And Snape gave us all that homework, too—a foot long. Better hope Trelawney doesn't have anything up her sleeve.”

“You could have just dropped Divination, you know, ” says Hermione, “it's rubbish.”

“And take what? Arithmancy? Fat chance, ‘Mione.”

“Or Ancient Runes, or Muggle Studies—although perhaps not that, it's outdated and badly explained, but…”

Harry pinches the bridge of his nose. Ron and Hermione continue their bickering well into lunch, and he loves them, really, he does, but they give him such a headache. At times he thinks they could very well end up arguing about the colour of the sky.

Fortunately for his sanity—already in question as it is, if one were inclined to believe the Prophet, they split off after lunch—Hermione to Arithmancy, Ron and Harry to Divination.

If there is another class beside Potions that Harry certainly had not missed over the summer, it is be this. He almost makes a joke about what sort of untimely death Professor Trelawney could possibly see for him this year, except it falls flat in his own mind; the graveyard is still too near, Cedric’s pallid, vacant face too present in his nightmares.

And lo and behold, the subject for this year is _dream interpretation._ If the ground could open up to the abyss and swallow Harry, he would be eternally grateful.

 _At least it’s not a double period,_ Harry thinks as he grits his teeth. Small wonders.

The end of the lesson greets Harry in a foul mood and with a mild headache. His eyes hurt from the fumes and the dim lighting. Professor Trelawney, in her dreamy, raspy voice, with her owlish eyes, blinks at her students as they prepare to leave.

“Don’t forget to keep a diary!” she says. “It’s very important to record your dreams.”

Harry has absolutely no intention of writing down any of his dreams—not the real ones, where everything is grim and dead. He stomps out of class and down the silver ladder, Ron grumbling all the way along.

“A dream diary,” he grouses. “How much homework does that make now? A foot-and-a-half  essay about the Giant wars, a foot on moonstones, and now a dream diary. For a month! This year’ll be the end of me.”

“Let’s see what Umbridge gives us, huh,” says Harry. Ron groans.

“She better not give us _any_ homework.”

They catch up with Hermione just outside the Defence classroom, speaking to—Zaahir. Hermione has a twinkle in her eye Harry recognises from when she finds an interesting book, or a tidbit of information she means to chase, and that’s just _weird._ She’s in discussion with a Slytherin, for Merlin’s sake.

“So, what’s this, ey,” says Ron when they reach the pair of girls, “speaking with a snake.”

Zaahir turns to them, looks Ron over. Her gaze is impassive, but Harry has the distinct impression she’s just made a rather harsh judgement of Ron.

To Hermione, she says, “I’ll copy the chapter for you after dinner,” and then enters the classroom without another word. Her accent is strange—definitely Spanish, as far as Harry can tell, but it also manages to be distinctly Scottish.

“Oh, well done, Ron,” Hermione hisses. She pushes past them into the classroom.

“What, me?” Ron follows her in. “What’re you talking to a Slytherin for? Why’s she copying a chapter for you?” Harry almost shushes him; Zaahir sits at the front of the class and can probably hear them, though she seems currently otherwise preoccupied.

At her desk, Hermione turns and glares at Ron. “She mentioned something interesting during Arithmancy, so I asked her about it, that’s all. And I didn’t need you to barge in like that, calling her a snake.”

“Well, she is!”

Harry quickly pushes Ron to a desk, keeping himself between Hermione and he. It’s not that he wants to be in the literal middle of them when they’ve started another silly tiff, but Hermione’s going a bit splotchy, which means Ron’s close to an untimely, gruesome verbal demise.

And Umbridge is _right there,_ sitting at her desk, observing them as one would observe flies. It’s more than a little disconcerting.

The rest of the class trickles in a lot quieter. Many glance at Umbridge, uncertain what to make of her; she’s dressed in pink again, _of course_ , and it’s the same cardigan as the night before, but instead with the black bow she’d worn at Harry’s hearing. It looks far too much like a fly has made the severely unwise decision of perching atop her head.

“Well,” says Umbridge, once all the students have settled. Harry has to grit his teeth at the sound of her voice. “Good afternoon. It’s certainly very nice to see you all again.”

The mumbled responses do not seem to please her at all. They have to repeat it, with an added “Professor Umbridge” at the end as if they’re five and not fifteen.

And that should have been the first warning, shouldn’t it? Because then it’s ‘wands away and quills out’, and reading chapter one of _Defensive Magical Theory,_ which is even duller than what Trelawney had them read the hour before, duller than even _Binns_ , and very little in this world can compete with their ghostly professor.

Several times, Harry’s eyes flit to the board, where Umbridge had written her aims for this course. Something about them bothers him— _understanding the principles underlying defensive magic,  learning to recognize situations in which defensive magic can legally be used, placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use_ —something he can’t pin down, not with how bored his brain is.

It’s after the fourth or fifth attempt at reading that he notes Hermione’s got her hand up in the air. Her book isn’t even open; that’s truly what catches Harry’s attention. ‘Hermione’ and ‘not reading’ don’t exactly compute in his head.

By the time Umbridge cares to grant Hermione some attention, at least three quarters of the class is openly staring. “Do you have a question about the chapter, Miss…”

“Granger,” says Hermione. She brings her hand down. “I actually have a question about your course aims, Professor.”

Umbridge regards her with a raised brow. “I think they’re quite clear, dear. Just read them carefully, and thoroughly.”

Somewhere at the back of class, Malfoy snorts. Harry is sure because he would recognise the git’s voice anywhere.

“Well, I disagree.” Hermione squares her shoulders. “You’ve written nothing of the _use_ of defensive spells.”

Harry blinks. _That’s what it was._ It’s still not entirely obvious, rather more between the lines than anything, and hadn’t it been the same with the speech she had given at the opening feast? _So this is what the Ministry meddling looks like._

“The _use_ of defensive spells?” Umbridge parrots. “Why, I don’t see why we should use any spells in this classroom. You are perfectly safe here, and as the Ministry mandates, you are to learn the theory of defence.”

Incredulous, Ron asks, “We’re not going to use any magic?”

“You raise your hand before you’re allowed to speak, Mr—”

“Weasley.”

As kindly as she smiles at Ron, she still turns away, likely intending for that to be the end of it, except now others have raised their hands, demanding her attention. Harry’s one of the first, but her eyes pass over him briefly, disapprovingly. She can’t ignore Hermione forever, though.

“Isn’t the whole point of Defence Against the Dark Arts,” says Hermione, when she’s ‘allowed’ to, “that we _practice_ how to defend ourselves?”

“Miss Granger,” says Professor Umbridge with a put upon air of extreme patience, “are you an expert on educational practices?”

“Well, no—”

“Then how can you be certain of what the whole point of a class is?” The accompanying smile is still kind the same way a cat grinning at its prey is. If the cat were a toad with a fly trapped on its head. She continues, “You are here to learn in a secure, risk-free environment—”

Harry lets his mouth run. “How’s that any good?”

Umbridge tries to still him with a look. “Hand, Mr Potter.”

Not that she bothers to give him attention when he raises his hand, but she can’t quite ignore everyone else, can she—like Dean repeating Harry’s question, _because it’s not like they’ll be attacked in a risk-free environment_ , or Parvati asking how they’re supposed to sit their O.W.L.s when they’ve never actually cast the spells before.

“Well, I understand you’ve been exposed to very irresponsible wizards,” Umbridge deflects, “and half-breeds, too, which is most unfortunate—”

“If you mean Professor Lupin, he was the best teach—”

“ _Hand_ , Mr Thomas,” Umbridge says. Her voice has a tremor of impatience. “The Ministry wishes to rectify the mistakes made the last couple of years.” She turns to Parvati. “If you study the theory vigorously, you will do well in your practical examinations.”

“What good is theory,” Harry says, “when we’re faced with the real world? We’re not supposed to be prepared for what’s out there?”

“And what, pray tell,” says Umbridge, apparently forgetting to urge people to raise their hands, “must you be prepared to defend against?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Harry says, and he _hears_ Hermione’s sharp intake of breath, “one Lord Voldemort, perhaps?”

Nearly everyone flinches. Harry barely cares, he’d said what he had, and he’d meant it, still does. Umbridge hadn’t flinched, as if she’d expected him to say exactly what he had; she seems satisfied.

“Ten points from Gryffindor,” she says. “Now let me explain some things. You may have been told that a certain wizard has returned,” and here she looks pointedly at Harry, “But I assure you, this is a lie.”

“It’s _not_ a—”

“How can you be so sure it is a lie?” The voice is calm, almost soft, except it carries across the classroom, and the accent is clear. The entire class looks at Zaahir. She says, “Have you investigated?”

Umbridge splutters. “There is nothing to be investigated! Wizards do not return from the dead.”

Zaahir quirks a brow. “How can you be sure he is _dead_? Did you see the cadaver? Does your Ministry have any solid proof he was ever dead?”

The room goes completely, tensely silent. If looks could kill, Zaahir would have long been buried under the ground, but she stares back into Umbridge’s glare as if it were nothing—perfectly composed, head tilted in question.

Finally, Umbridge says, “I will not have you question the Ministry’s—”

“Then don’t.” Zaahir shrugs, sits back, her demeanor almost as if she were dealing with an unruly, petulant toddler. The image almost makes Harry laugh, except he’s _too furious_ , nails digging into his palms.

Shakily, Harry says, “He isn’t dead. I saw him, and I _fought_ him.”

The murderous gaze returns to him. “Detention, Mr Potter!” The triumph in her voice is clear. “Tomorrow at five o’clock. And I repeat, this is a lie. No Dark Wizard lurks outside. If you’ve any doubts, you may ask me outside of class, but I assure you, there’s no need to be alarmed. If someone spreads these lies, please do come talk to me. Now, do continue your reading. Page five.”

She takes a seat. The class seems keen on doing as she tells them, but Harry stands. Hermione pulls at his robe, beseeching, but his heart beats quickly, and his face has gone hot, and he can’t just _keep quiet_.

“So, you suppose Cedric Diggory simply dropped dead on his own?”

Umbridge regards him primly. Around them, the class has gone deathly silent again; Cedric was, after all, still Hogwarts’ champion, his death is still fresh, and Harry had never mentioned it, not to anyone but Ron and Hermione. He’d rather not talk about it now, either, not here, not with _her_ and all her simpering, her denial of a truth he knows to be quite real, if only because he’d lived it, lived through it.

And Cedric _hadn’t._

“Mr Diggory’s death was a tragic accident,” Umbridge replies, the epitome of fake calm. Harry wants to hex her. Or perhaps punch her.

“He was murdered,” says Harry, “there’s nothing accidental about that. Voldemort killed him.” The entire class flinches at the name, _again_ , Umbridge included. _Cowards._

But then her face goes blank. Harry isn’t so stupid as to believe he’s won anything; no matter how much pink Umbridge tries to cover herself with, she will always remain a viper, and he is sure she’s about to lash out horribly.

Instead, she says, impossibly sweet, “Come here, dear.”

He’d rather throw his chair at her, and it’s a very near thing, except some part of him seems to have resolved into a modicum of calmness. He walks to her with his back straight, meeting her gaze evenly, defiantly.

Professor Umbridge writes a note on pink parchment— _of course it’s pink,_ Harry thinks irritably. It’s half a surprise the ink she uses isn’t some awful shade of pink, too, but it’s in the small things, he supposes, small wonders.

“Bring this to Professor McGonagall, won’t you, dear.”

 _Bloated toad,_ he thinks at her. He hopes she sees it in his glare, but he takes the note without saying a word. The door slams behind him for good measure.

He dodges Peeves, who is keen to remind him the world thinks he’s a nutter, and stomps down the corridor to McGonagall’s office, only to nearly walk into her as she opens her door.

“Mr Potter,” she says evenly. “Shouldn’t you be in class?” She sends a glare Peeves’ way, as he peaks around the corner, and the poltergeist has good sense the shut _up._

Stiffly, Harry hands Professor McGonagall the pink parchment. She eyes it with a bemused look, then something akin to irritation, and motions for Harry to come in. The door closes automatically.

Professor McGonagall reads the note quickly. Her expression changes little beyond the press of her lips becoming sterner. When she’s done—and she must’ve read it twice, because Umbridge hadn’t written _that_ much, she looks over the rim of her square glasses at Harry.

“Is this true, Mr Potter?” She rolls up the note. “Did you defy Professor Umbridge?”

“Yes.”

“And did you claim You-Know-Who has returned?”

Resolute, “Yes.”

A sigh. “Have a biscuit.”

“I—what.”

Professor McGonagall points at a tin of biscuits on her desk. Harry blinks at it a few times, uncomprehending, but takes a Ginger Newt nonetheless. He sits down quicker when Professor McGonagall tells him too, mostly because he has no idea what to expect anymore.

“You need to be more careful, Potter,” she tells him. “And perhaps a bit more subtle. You cannot misbehave in classes with Dolores Umbridge.”

“What—”

“You know where she comes from.” She gives him a pointed look. “Who do you think she reports to? You must be careful what you say to her.” A weary sigh, and she adds. “You have detention every night this week, at five. In her office.”

“Every night—” Harry starts, and then can’t continue because _every night_ includes Friday, and he can already see Angelina’s disappointed face; his own stomach has sunk. Surely his head of house could do something about this.

“I can’t help you with this, Potter,” she tells him, as if she can see in his head. “She is your teacher and thus has the right to punish you as she sees fit. And _you_ need to keep your head down and your temper in check.”

Harry protests, “But she was _lying_ —”

“Potter, it’s not about truths or lies,” and Harry has the distinct feeling Professor McGonagall has lost all her patience with him, “it’s about being _politic._ You’ve got the Ministry breathing down your neck, looking for any chance to discredit or expell you, and they have someone in place to enact the punishment.”

Harry clacks his teeth together, grinding them so hard his jaw hurts. There is nothing left to say, to counter with, because—because. Because she is right, of course.

The last bell rings.


	3. The Quill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Umbridge: possibly a devil, rather than a toad. And Harry is stuck with her on four more evenings.

In hindsight, going to dinner is a terrible mistake.

Ron and Hermione have waited for him, though, and the meal is nice for all of five seconds before Harry hears the whispers, because of course the entire school has heard of what’s transpired between Umbridge and he.

“Do you know he claims to have fought You-Know-Who…”

“He’s mental, that’s what…”

If Harry stabs his potatoes any harder, either the silverware will bend, or his plate will crack under the force. It’s a toss up. He tries to drink for a bit, to swallow down his anger, but his hands shake too much for even just that. At his fifth attempt to stab his food, Hermione places her hand upon his.

“Let’s go,” she murmurs. She signals to Ron, who quickly stuffs his face before they leave the hall entirely.

But on the way out, they’re met with a rather displeased-looking Angelina. She says, “Potter, _why_ did you go and get yourself detention on Friday? We have tryouts,” as if Harry isn’t well and painfully aware of this little fact.

“It’s not just Friday,” he tells her, too ill-humoured to sound very sorry. “That Umbridge woman has got me in detention the entire week.”

“Fix it.” Angelina pivots away, leaving Harry with a prominent urge to pull his hair out from his scalp.

 _Fix it_ , as if it’s that easy.

Hermione drags him away by his arm. Between then and the Gryffindor tower, nobody else appears to test Harry’s patience or his temper, and the tower itself is empty safe for some studious Gryffindors and Crookshanks.

Not that that makes Harry feel any better. This had been the very first day of term and he’s already got weeklong detention with someone vying to replace Snape as his most hated Professor, _and_ the entire school’s gossiping about him being mad, _and_ his team Captain’s on his case for the aforementioned detention. It’s like an entire month squeezed into one miserable day.

As if on cue, Hermione throws herself into a chair. “How could this happen? How can Dumbledore—how can anyone let that w— _woman_ ,” and she says it with the exact amount of venom Harry feels deep within his bones, “teach at Hogwarts?”

“‘S not like people are lining up for the job, is it?” says Ron.

Harry sighs. “We’ve had the most rotten luck with Defence teachers, all right. Remus was the best, and look at what happened.”

“That still doesn’t justify that—the— _her._ ” Hermione covers her face with her hands. “How’re we supposed to learn anything _useful_. The book’s rubbish, too.”

Somewhat taken aback, Harry takes a seat opposite her. It’s a rare thing indeed for Hermione to go on a rage like this, and certainly he can’t immediately recall any time she’s disliked a book.

They sit in silence for a bit. Around them, the common room fills up bit by bit, though people avoid their particular corner. Harry _tries_ not to think of it too much, but it’s hard when it’s so obvious, especially as he catches a few glances thrown his way.

After a while, he says, “Homework, then?” Ron makes a face at him, so Harry responds by sticking out his tongue. It’s not like he wants to either, but Ron’s the one who’s been complaining about their course-load, which Harry will freely admit is horrendous, indeed.

While Ron decides to start with Potions—“It’s a foot-long, innit,”—Harry tries instead to forge a dream or two to get ahead, because he still steadfastly refuses to record his actual dreams, and it doesn’t matter how many disapproving glances Hermione sends his way, he will not relent.

He’s halfway through his second entry when Hermione says, “Oh no, absolutely not.”

It’s not difficult to spot the source of her displeasure; in another corner, Fred and George have surrounded themselves with a gaggle of first-years. Harry wisely decides to keep his mouth shut and return to his homework; Hermione, after urging Ron to come with her to face his brothers, goes alone.

When he’s quite run out of ideas for his dream-fabrications, Harry takes out parchment for his Potions essay with a grimace. In the background, he hears Hermione say, “I’ll owl your mother.”

“You wouldn’t,” says Fred. Harry sympathises.

“Oh, I _would._ ” She stomps back to her seat, leaving the twins open-mouthed in her wake. “Thanks a lot, by the way,” she snaps to Ron.

“You handled it just fine on your own,” Ron says, as if he thinks that’ll go over well with Hermione, and Harry thinks Ron kind of deserves the resulting glare.

“Well, I’m going to bed,” Hermione announces. “I can’t concentrate anymore.”

She doesn’t go immediately; instead she takes out some weirdly shaped, woolly things from her bag, and places them about. Her explanation is that it’s hats for the elves, and Harry really doesn’t know what to do with that information, other than that Hermione has taken this entire House-Elf freedom thing to heart. He doesn’t know what he expected, honestly; it’s Hermione after all, and she doesn’t do things by halves.

“Mental, that one,” Ron says after she leaves. Harry glares at him. If there’s one sentence, or even a word he absolutely does not want to hear right now, it’s that. Even if he does think Hermione’s gone just the bit off the deep end.

“Well, that’s the end of this, too.” Ron gestures at his Potions homework. “I don’t suppose you know anything about moonstones?”

Harry grimaces. He hasn’t started his reading yet, and truth be told he doesn’t feel up to it. Ron and he call it a day and trudge up the stairs to their dormitory; Harry studiously ignores Seamus when he catches sight of him. He’s had enough provocation to last him the year.

***

The unfortunate thing about the second day of term is that all the staff seem keen on reminding them of their O.W.L.s, and Harry dearly wishes they could all sing some other tune. Flitwick gives them a veritable mountain of homework, especially when the entire lesson had been spent only on the Summoning Charm. By the time Care for Magical Creatures rolls around, McGonagall has only gone and added to the stress.

Harry finds some solace in that fact that Ron and he had made some progress on the moonstones during break, but that’s all well and gone by the time Grubby-Plank assigns them their homework, which consists of drawing Bowtruckles.

“She’ll never be as good as Hagrid,” Harry mutters when they can finally leave. He’s not lying per se, even fully aware as he is that for once they’ve had a decent lesson, but there’s honour in defending Hagrid’s integrity as a teacher.

Hermione hums. Harry glares at her.

They intercept Gryffindor and Ravenclaw fourth-years on their way to the greenhouses. Ginny greets them with a wave and a lovely smile; behind her, Luna emerges looking possibly a bit weirder than usual, if only because she has dirt in her hair and on her face. She beams a smile at them, which is disconcerting enough on its own before she even speaks.

“I believe you, you know.” Her eyes are bright. Her ears were adorned by what Harry thinks are orange radishes as earrings. “I believe you about You-Know-Who.”

“What’s this,” comes Malfoy’s voice from somewhere behind them, and Harry has to wonder if the ponce has taken the habit of stalking him; certainly wouldn’t be a first. Malfoy says, “A nutter endorsing another nutter?”

“Sod off, Malfoy,” Ron warns.

“Think you can order me around, Weasley?”

Ron takes a step forward.

“If you’re quite done with your childish posturing, you’re in my way.”

Malfoy most decidedly flinches at the sound of Zaahir’s voice, which is a sight Harry wants to savour but also understand. Malfoy quickens his pace and moves a bit to the side so that Zaahir can sweep past with barely a glance at those she leaves in the dust, though Harry swears he hears her murmur, “niños _”_ as she marches away to Charms.

Before he can comment on it to Ron, Ernie Macmillan steps forward. “For the record, Potter” he says loudly, “I believe you. My family’s always stood with Dumbledore.”

“Er,” Harry says, because he feels like this all has become a bit of a circus, “Thanks.”

Ernie nods, continues on to the greenhouses. Harry catches Seamus’ look of confusion and feels just the bit vindicated; that’s two people who’ve thrown their support at him, even if one of them had had radishes for earrings and apparently a reputation for being bonkers. It makes his day a bit better until Professor Sprout also does her bit on the O.W.L.s.

It’s as if  the teaching staff have collectively made the decision to drive them absolutely up the wall with anxiety. Not one bit of it is fun.

It’s not at all fun either, when Harry realises that with the end of the day so near, it means that his detention is up. He barely has the time to eat a proper meal and get cleaned up—much as he loathes Umbridge, he’s not about to appear in her office covered in fertilizer.

He’s at Umbridge’s door at five sharp, because that’s just the kind of day he’s having. He sighs and knocks, grimaces at the sweet voice that tells him to come in, and then is hit with a barrage of pink.

That should not surprise him. Still, between Lockhart’s many portraits beaming down at him and this mess of lace and dried  flowers, each vase with its own doily, Harry easily prefers Lockhart. The framed kittens on the wall get his most attention in the form of a horrified stare.

“Good evening, Mr Potter.”

It’s all he can do not to jump. Umbridge’s voice is not, in fact, disembodied, but is indeed quite attached to her where she sits behind her desk. Her clothes match rather too well with the flowery—thing; it’s probably supposed to be a tablecloth.

“Good evening, Professor.” If his reply is too stiff, at least it’s clear, and she can’t complain about his manners. Joy.

She motions for him to sit. Harry eyes the flowery pink pattern of the chair and decides it probably won’t eat him _or_ infect him, and so he lays down his bag and sits.

“Now, you’ll be doing lines for me, Mr Potter,” and as he bent to his bag, she says, “No, no, not with your quill. I’ve one right here, that suits the task much better.”

The quill she hands him is black, thin, unusually sharp, and for a moment it gives Harry chills. Something’s not...quite right with the thing, but he’s not about to go tell Umbridge that, not with the delight she beams at him now.

She passes him parchment, too, but no ink. “You won’t need that,” she tells him, suddenly _sweeter._ “Now, write for me ‘I must not tell lies’, won’t you dear?”

Harry wants to kick her, but instead affects politeness to ask, “How many times?”

“As many times as it takes to...sink in.” She smiles.

It feels more likely he’ll sink the pen in her hand but, well, he’s got lines to write, doesn’t he? And he would rather be done soon, so he can leave this garish office and the devil that is Umbridge.

He puts quill to parchment, fully expecting the point to scratch horribly against the paper, except as he writes—carefully even, _I must not tell lies_ —the back of his hand goes red, twitches at the sudden sharp pain. The ink on the parchment is bright, shining red before it dries.

And on the back of his hand, the same words are etched into his skin. _I must not tell lies._

The skin heals. Harry stares at it—the line where the words had been mere seconds ago is still red, but nothing else. He glances at Umbridge and finds her far too pleased with herself.

“Is something the matter, Mr Potter?”

“Nothing at all, Professor.”

His detention passes like that, the words on the parchment carved on his skin, each new cut more painful than the next—not that Harry let out a single peep; he’s not about to give the awful toad the satisfaction of it.

Sometimes it’s a near thing. He grinds his teeth so hard, his jaw probably locks in that position, and it’s no wonder then, that he has to add another headache to the list of his problems. Harry’s not even sure how long he sits there, his breaths carefully evened out, but the lines blur, and outside the sky goes dark.

She watches every second of it. By the time she tells him to stop, Harry’s entire arm aches, the pain of his hand radiating up to the hollow of his elbow. He bites back a hiss, tries not to grimace too obviously, but nearly gives it all away when Umbridge wants to inspect his hand.

“Hmm,” says the overgrown reptile that is Umbridge, “it appears I haven’t quite left an impression yet. I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Mr Potter.”

He nods.

Outside, the corridor is empty. He meets no one outside, not even Mrs Norris, and it could very well be past midnight, but he doesn’t care.

Once he’s far enough away from her office, he runs.

***

He skips breakfast—partially because he can’t stomach it, partially because he hadn’t had time to tackle any part of his homework the evening before. Fortunately he’d had the presence of mind to forge some dreams for Trelawny, but that still leaves him with the drawing of Bowtruckles.

Turns out drawing creatures that are practically just sticks isn’t as easy as it looks.

Ron sits with him, scribbling away some dreams. He looks tired, which is strange considering he’d been fast asleep by the time Harry had reached the dorm.

“Why didn’t you do it last night?” asks Harry.

“Was busy,” says Ron, and then he slams his diary shut. “That should do it. Let’s go.”

Compared to the rest of the day, Divination is a breeze. Harry does exceptionally bad in Transfiguration, what with the detention not giving him any time to practice the Vanishing Spell. The snail he’s meant to make disappear remains just as present as ever, though at some point Harry makes its shell disappear for a solid second.

He can’t exactly practice tonight either, can he? And Professor McGonagall doesn’t even spare them from yet another mountain of homework.

By the time they arrive for Care of Magical Creatures, Harry would rather strangle a bowtruckle than anything else, but instead has to reign his temper in to hear about their life cycle and mating habits. The little bastards have a mean bite anyway.

“How was detention with Umbridge,” Ron whispers to him when they’re sent out to feed the bowtruckles.

For a moment, Harry wants to tell him all of it. His hand still aches at times, but there’s nothing there to prove anything of what transpired the evening before. Still, he has to tell, because Ron is his best mate, but the moment passes and instead, he says, “Just lines.”

“That’s not so bad.”

“Nope.”

At the end of class, Grubby-Plank gives them an essay to write—the different aspects of bowtruckles through their life cycle, both magically and physically. How in all of creation Harry’s supposed to fit all that in with the rest of his schedule is a mystery.

“Potter,” someone calls as the class makes their way to lunch.

Zaahir stands a few paces ahead, arms crossed. As she’s got Harry attention now, she says, “May I have a word with you.”

“What d’you need to talk to Harry for,” says Ron.

She’s not very impressed with him, by the looks of it, but she only spares Ron a glance. At Harry, she looks expectantly.

“What do you want, then?” he says.

Her lips press together briefly. “Not here.”

She leads them to the nearest empty classroom. Ron and Harry exchange a few questioning looks, but Hermione shares nothing of her thoughts, choosing instead to look at Zaahir pensively.

Once securely in the classroom, Zaahir turns her attention on Harry, her eyes piercing right through him. They’re hazel, he notes now.

“May I see your hand?” she asks.

Harry freezes. “What for?” She couldn’t know, could she? He almost wants to look at it, but that would give too much away. The last time he’d seen his hands, there’d been nothing there. She can't know anything.

Zaahir says, “Last night, you had your first detention with Professor Umbridge. This morning, you suddenly have a dark curse. On your hand.”

He stares her down. At least, he tries to, but she’s already proven impervious to Umbridge’s glare, so what chance does he have, really?

“What’s she talking about, Harry?” says Ron at the same time Hermione says, “Is this true, Harry?”

If anything, Harry wants to leave. He hadn’t even told his best mates, and here is a complete stranger who seems to have figured it all out from nothing.

Her gaze softens for a second. “I’m not asking you to like me,” she says quietly, “but whatever it is she’s done to you, it’s vile, and it’s lingering. I just want to help.”

“Why? You don’t know me.”

She studies him, considering. Then, “I help because I can. Now, may I see your hand?”

He could very well walk away, deny her completely. Somehow, that sits wrong with him, because she sounds earnest, and he does remember, clearly, how she’d questioned Umbridge’s insistence that he is a liar.

Reluctantly he shows her his hand. There’s nothing there.

She takes it in both of hers, presses her thumbs into his skin. It doesn’t hurt, exactly, but it does feel strange. Behind him, Ron makes a noise in the back of his throat, but stops his fidgeting when Harry sends him a look.

“I see,” Zaahir says after a moment. “It’s not very deep yet, but it _is_ festering.” She looks at Harry. “What did she use?”

“A quill.”

She quirks a brow. “And the ink was your blood?”

_How on earth—_

Hermione steps forward. “How do you know all of this? How’d you even know there’s anything on his hand?”

Thankfully, Zaahir has the mind to _let go_ of said hand. Harry rubs the skin; it feels just the same as ever.

“I can feel it,” Zaahir tells Hermione. “I’m surprised none of the teachers in this school have raised the alarm.”

“What do you mean you can _feel_ it—”

“It’s difficult to explain,” Zaahir says patiently. “It just made my hackles rise. Potter wasn’t this tainted yesterday, and today he is. A quill spelled to use blood as ink does explain why she has you in for the rest of the week.”

Harry frowns. “How’s that?”

Zaahir sighs. “Well...this sort of thing, it takes it’s time sinking in. This particular brand of magic works in layers. The more you repeat it, the deeper it cuts, until it’s permanent. It’s foul, really.”

“Hold on,” says Ron, “that sounds like Dark magic.”

“So that’s what she meant,” says Harry, “‘Until it sinks in’, she’d said.”

“[Desgraciada](-),” says Zaahir, and whatever that means, she says it with such feeling that Harry can’t help but agree.

“We should go to Professor McGonagall with this,” Hermione says. “Actually, we should go to Professor Dumbledore.”

Before Harry can even begin to protest—Dumbledore's got enough on his mind, after all, Zaahir’s shaking her head at Hermione.

“In any other circumstance, I would agree with you, Granger. But I've read the papers; the Ministry really doesn't like him, and they like Potter less.”

“So?”

“So,” Zaahir says slowly, “Umbridge is a Ministry mole. It’ll be her word against the headmaster's, and the paper’s salivating at any chance to paint Potter as a liar.”

“Ah,” says Hermione.

Much as Harry had been against involving Dumbledore, he does not like any of what Zaahir has just made plain.

Neither does Ron, apparently. “So we do nothing?”

“Exactly,” says Zaahir. “ _You_ do nothing.” Then, to Harry, “Meet me on Saturday, in the library. I’ll have a cure done by then.”

She breezes past them, leaving them to stare after her incredulously.

After a moment, Ron says, “Are we supposed to trust her? She’s a Slytherin.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “What does it _matter_ , Ron? And never mind that,” here she zeroes in on Harry like some sort of hawk, “how could you not tell us, Harry?”

“Well,” he’s very aware he’s on thin ice here, because Hermione’s got that look in her eyes like she’s ready to lambast him. He’s had a trying enough day without having to justify himself to his friends. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Worry us,” says Hermione, “Harry, she’s torturing you. We’ve every right to worry.”

Well, now that she’s gone and put it like that…

“I’m sorry, all right?” he says. “I should have told you.”

“Damn right, you should have,” Ron pipes in. His stomach grumbles. “Lunch, then?”


	4. The Keeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forget the Devil—Umbridge might be in cahoots with a certain dark wizard.
> 
> And Harry is so, so behind on all his coursework.

Turns out detention’s not so good for academic progress when you’ve got homework to last you a lifetime. Harry’s essays pile up horribly, and while Binns isn’t quick to hand out detention, Snape _is_ , so Harry finds himself awake at two in the morning, cobbling together sentences to the moonstone essay, trying very much no to just fall asleep at the table.

By Thursday, he’s exhausted and aching everywhere, most prominently his right hand. Harry is so behind on everything, he might as well say goodbye to a good weekend, because the only way he can salvage anything and do all the coursework is with the help of God and every available angel.

Ron’s as tired as he is, though he won’t say why. “It’s just a lot of homework, mate,” is his excuse, and it most certainly is an excuse, because often Harry and he end up doing the work during break.

Hermione isn’t keen on helping them either, not after Ron goes and insults the hats she leaves for the House Elves.

“You _say_ you want her to help us,” says Harry on Thursday evening, as he departs for his detention. “But then you go and insult her hats…”

“Well, they’re ugly little things, aren’t they?” says Ron. “I mean, they don’t even look like proper hats. I bet even Loony Lovegood wouldn’t wear them.”

Harry just keeps his mouth shut and goes. If he says anything at all, Ron’ll likely take it as confirmation and then relay it to Hermione as ‘even Harry thinks so’, and that’s a world of trouble he doesn’t want at the moment.

As has become usual, he arrives on the dot at Umbridge’s office, takes his seat, and writes his lines. He’s come to loathe her office and the colour pink just about a tinge more than he detests Umbridge herself, and he certainly hates those kittens staring at him from their place on her wall.

He writes in silence. The skin doesn’t heal as quickly as it did before; in fact, after a while, it doesn’t heal at all. Harry only pauses when the pain blinds him for a second, but it’s enough of a pause to be noticeable.

“Show me, dear,” Umbridge says.

Some droplets roll from the words as he extends his arm to her. She inspects them closely, holding his hand in hers, and really, Harry would like his hand back from her claws, but she holds firm.

“Hmm,” she says at last, “it seems I’ve gotten the message across for tonight. You may go now, Mr Potter.”

He keeps his relief to himself, especially when she let’s go of his hand. “Must I return again tomorrow, Professor?” When she raises her brow, he quickly adds, “It’s just, I’m part of my House’s Quidditch team, and tryouts for a new Keeper are tomorrow, and I thought—I could come on Saturday instead…”

It’s a lost cause. Umbridge looks at him as if he’s just given her a treat, the best kind, and maybe he _has_. Damn.

She says, “Oh, no no no, Mr Potter. You’ve told terrible, vile and vicious lies, and I intend to keep to my punishment for them.” She smiles, sweet as cotton candy. “I will see you again tomorrow, five o’clock sharp.”

Harry curses all the way back. He hadn’t wanted to give her anything, not an inch, and yet he’d gone and done precisely that. _Fix it,_ Angelina had said, but instead he’s gone and well botched it.

 _Idiot,_ he thinks, _idiot._

And he’s so caught up in it, in the echo of Umbridge as she’s said _‘you’ve told terrible, vile and vicious lies,_ ’ in the ache of the scars of his hand, that he very nearly trips over Ron on his way up to the tower.

“Oi, Harry,” Ron says, startled. “Not so furious, mate.”

“Sorry,” says Harry. “Wasn’t expecting anyone out this late.”

It’s not as late as usual—certainly not past midnight this time, but it still begs the question of what Ron is doing out, because it’s near enough to curfew that neither of them should actually linger.

Frowning, he takes in Ron’s awkward stance, with his arms behind his back—nearly has to do a double take, because no matter how tall Ron is, he can’t hide the Cleansweep 11 which Mrs Weasley had bought him for becoming a Prefect.

“Ron,” Harry says slowly, “were you out flying?”

“No, well—yes.” Ron’s face goes a bit pained. “It’s...forget about it, okay? It’s stupid.”

“I will _not_ forget about it,” says Harry, “not after you told me off for not telling you about Umbridge.”

Ron grimaces. “Look, I—I know it’s really stupid but. IwanttotryoutforKeeper, there I said it.”

It takes a moment to parse out the words, and Harry has to rewind it twice in his head, but suddenly, it all makes sense—Ron’s tiredness, the bit about not having done his homework in the evening, the broom. Harry should have caught on before this, he really should have. He’s been neglecting his friends.

“Ron, that’s brilliant,” Harry says, smiling widely. “It’s not stupid at all!”

He claps Ron on the back, and together they walk up to the dormitory.

 

***

Friday is the absolute worst.

For one, it starts with double Potions, which means someone out there truly hates Harry. For two, he now has to tell Angelina he really can’t join in for tryouts later because he’s still in detention, and no, Umbridge can’t be convinced otherwise. He’d tried already.

And the thing is, he’s still exhausted, his hand’s aching like mad now—it’s even scabbing, which doesn’t exactly benefit his potion-making. In fact, it’s calling up a headache, which means the board’s difficult to read, and in the end his potion’s about as bad as his essay. Possibly worse. Probably worse.

The sludge bubbles, and when Harry lets it simmer, it stinks like something dead. _Definitely worse._

“What’s this, Mr Potter.” Snape suddenly looms over him, and Harry very nearly loses his ladle into the disgusting thing he’s made.

“A potion,” Harry mutters.

“Certain, are you?” Snape eyes Harry like an absolute reptile. “I think not. This is abominable, Potter, even for your doing. If you’re to bleed, try not to do it in my class.” Before Harry can even think of a reply, Snape has vanished his potion and swept away.

 _It’s not my fault,_ he thinks. His hand isn’t even bleeding, it just smarts at times. _It’s not like I asked for this;_ Umbridge had just waltzed in, all pomp and sanctimonious posturing, like an ugly pink cow. Which is an insult to cows everywhere.

With his cauldron empty, Harry has nothing left to do but clean up everything else and wait until the bell relieves him of Potions and the dungeons. He’s first out of the class, if only so he can breathe fresher air.

“That was a bit unfair,” says Hermione as soon as she and Ron join him.

“A bit,” Harry snaps. “A bit, yeah.”

“Well, your potion _was_ pretty bad.”

That’s exactly what he wants to hear right about now. “Thanks, ‘Mione.”

“Snape’s always been too hard on Harry,” Ron chimes in, “I mean, last time your potion was spot on, and he still took the time to pick on you.”

“I really thought he’d be nicer this year,” says Hermione, “since he’s...well, in...you know,” in a whisper, she says, “the Order.”

“I’m surprised Dumbledore’s even let him in,” Ron says, “I mean, are we sure he’s not still a spy? For the wrong side?”

Hermione glares at him sideways. “I think Dumbledore would know better than you, Ronald.”

“Please don’t start,” says Harry. His head’s pounding already without their silly bickering. “Just—don’t.”

He picks up his pace, leaves them behind with startled faces. It’s not even been a week, and Ron and Hermione have argues nearly every day of it so far, as if they’re just waiting for any and every opportunity to jump down each other’s throats.

Fortunately, he loses them in the crowd. Unfortunately, he’s one of the first to arrive to Charms class. The two Ravenclaws already there eye him warily when he marches in, face like a thundercloud, and Harry nearly snarls at them.

Neither Ron nor Hermione quite look at him when they arrive, but they _are_ rather blessedly quiet.

Charms, while not as much of a disaster as Potions, is still rubbish. Harry hasn’t had time to practice for this either, so he lags behind everyone else, unable to cast a proper Silencing Charm, but certainly in the mood to silence everyone.

For three on why Friday is the worst—he sees Umbridge twice. Right after lunch, they’re off to read yet another absolutely mind-numbing chapter on her beloved “theory”. Right after dinner, she gets to order him to maim his own hand.

Outside, where the sky is still light blue, he can see the goal posts. Whoever tries out for Keeper the one time Harry dares to watch, they don’t do a good job of it. Harry recognises Katie as the Chaser; he’s been on the team long enough he can tell their silhouettes and movements apart. She scores in quick succession.

 _Please let that not be Ron as the Keeper._ It’s a fleeting thought.

 _I must not tell lies_ , is a much more pressing one, and far less pleasant. By the time night falls for certain, Harry’s hand burns, and sheer determination and power of will keep him from even uttering a gasp. His last few lines are barely scribbles.

“Let us have a look,” says Umbridge.

Harry viciously hopes some blood gets on her dreadful clothes; it’s the least she deserves. She eyes the bloody words on his hand appreciatively, as if they’re some kind of bestial, perverted piece of art. She looks at him for any kind of reaction, but he merely stares her dead in the eye, expressionless.

His scar, the one on his forehead— _burns._

Pained, Harry yanks his arm back. Umbridge’s smile is sweet, as always, always, and to her he must seem a wild, hurt animal—certainly, he wants to flee, wants to never have to look at her again. If his scar hurts like this, it could only mean one thing.

“Well,” says Umbridge, “I think I’ve made my point. Goodnight, Mr Potter.”

Somehow, through the pain and the bile that wants to rise in his throat, Harry manages to find his way back to the Gryffindor tower. The Fat Lady eyes him worriedly, especially when he can just barely mumble the password without possibly going green in the face.

He stumbles into a celebration, and a cacophony. Ron sprints towards him, grin so wide he might as well be impersonating Cheshire cat. He’s got Oliver Woods Quidditch robes on; Harry recognises the cut of it, not yet fitted to Ron’s frame.

“I made it, Harry,” says Ron, “I’m Keeper!”

“Brilliant,” Harry says. He shoves his hand into his pocket, never mind the blood and the pain. This should be Ron’s moment. “Congrats, mate.”

Hermione sleeps in a corner, probably by design of some delightful magic that shuts her away from the roar of Gryffindor’s having a party. She jerks awake when Harry sits down next to her.

“Oh, hello, Harry,” she says, then yawns. “Ron’s Keeper now.”

“I heard,” he says. Once he’s certain no one else is paying them any attention, he says, “Listen, something’s just happened with Umbridge…”

Not once does she interrupt him as he relays the encounter to her. It doesn’t take too much time, thankfully; he doesn’t want to give anyone else the opportunity to overhear and start a row about him being a raving lunatic.

Hermione frowns. “I really think you ought go to Dumbledore this time.”

“He’s got enough on his—”

“Yes, but Harry…”Hermione presses her lips together, “remember what he said last year? About the scar reacting to You-Know-Who’s emotions? Maybe it’s that, and it’s got nothing to do with Umbridge at all.”

Harry hadn’t even thought of that possibility. Still, “I’m not bothering him with this. Maybe—maybe it’s a fluke. The scar’s been hurting on and off the last few months.”

That doesn’t please Hermione, but she can’t exactly force him to go, either. He bids her goodnight and leaves the rest to their festivities. He’s proud of Ron, he is, but with the detentions finally behind his back, Harry would rather sleep.

His hand’s not stopped bleeding yet. Harry wraps it up in the nearest piece of cloth he can find—socks, as it happens, and he hopes it’s all sanitary.

 _Zaahir had mentioned something about a cure,_ he thinks as he lays down. He doesn’t actually _trust_ her, but if it means he won’t have to carry around yet another scar, he’s willing to go see whether she can keep her word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Won't be posting till Friday due to day job!


	5. The Cure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of cures and conversations. Things ought be simple, but they're really not.

Against all odds, Harry wakes just after dawn. The light’s still grey, and the other boys are fast asleep. He lays still for a bit, appreciative of the notion of Saturday, with classes more than a day away.

He’s less appreciative of all the homework he has to catch up with. As the Professors seem keen to drown them, Harry really can’t put if off until Sunday evening, when both he and Ron panic and beg Hermione for some insight. And all of her notes.

The sock he’d wrapped around his hand had done a decent job of keeping the blood of his sheets. That it sticks to his skin like it’s been half-heartedly glued there is a side-effect Harry would have rather not dealt with, but here he is. Forget McGonagall or Dumbledore; he ought have gone to Madam Pomfrey.

But then, she’d probably alert his head of house, who would do her duty and tell Dumbledore. He’s stuck trying out whatever Zaahir has in mind.

It’s then he catches sight of the note pinned neatly to the curtains of his bed. The script is neat, letters curling elegantly, almost aggressively cursive.

_Library, 8:15._

_—S. Zaahir._

“How in the hell,” Harry mutters.

It’s quarter to when he looks at the time, so he can have breakfast before he goes to the library, if he wants to. His stomach disagrees with the thought, and given the early hour, the Hall’s bound to be deserted.

He arrives with time to spare, and finds Zaahir at a table in the far corner, somehow still in the direct line of sight of Madam Pince. Zaahir is surrounded by books and a tray of tea and biscuits, as well as an empty plate that had probably once contained her breakfast.

“How’d you get the note in my dorm?” he asks by way of greeting. How’d she even get food in the library, but Harry figures he should go about it one question at a time.

She doesn't even looks up from her scribbles. It looks like something herbology-related, and Harry has a solid few seconds where he panics because he can’t recall anything about homework on this particular plant, but then he recognises it as a mere non-magical cactus and all the anxiety is gone.

Zaahir says, “I have my ways.” Then she looks up at him, far too bright and alert for anyone up at this ungodly hour. “Good morning, Potter. Take a seat, won’t you.”

She continues her writing for a bit, so Harry sits uncomfortably, tries not to outright stare at her and instead look around, so it takes a moment for him to notice what she’s writing _with._

“Is that...a fountain pen?”

It’s a rather ornate thing, with a detailed, scaly dragon coiled around the body of it, and tiny emeralds inserted for its eyes. The tip is golden, with thin, neat curls carved into it. Harry stares openly; he’s certainly seen fountain pens before, had used them even, during his time at primary, but none of them had ever been so fancy.

“Yes,” says Zaahir, “I find quills rather outdated, and I don’t like the feel of ballpoint pens, so this is an elegant solution.”

Now, why hadn’t Harry thought of that? He’s seen them around in Muggle shops, and they’re not _all_ terribly expensive. In fact, he could’ve just bought an entire pack of ballpoints and done with that; it’s not like his handwriting would suffer. It would probably save him money on ink, too.

Zaahir smiles like she knows exactly what he’s thinking. “Does save you from all the dipping, doesn’t it? Now, show us your hand.”

Now Harry’s had quite enough of people pawing at him, or, to be more specific, grabbing his hand. The corner of Zaahir’s lips turn down when she sees the scars, and she does look rather sorry when she presses her thumb down on them. Harry tries to jerk his hand away, but she’s got a good hold of it.

“Sorry,” she says, “but at least now we know there’s no nerve damage. Curses like to go for the nervous system, but you appear to have dodged that bullet.”

“I could’ve told you that,” says Harry.

She gives him an unimpressed look, then digs into her bag with one hand. She brings up a small, brown vial and some wrappings.

“This,” she says, holding up the vial, “is Dittany. The essence of. You put a few drops on your hand. It’ll sting, but that’s for the best. These,” she points at the wrappings, “have been doused in Murtlap essence. They’ll sooth the cuts.”

 _And have the lovely side-effect of covering them up,_ thinks Harry, not that he’s going to voice that particular thought to her.

She shows him how to use the Dittany; the vial comes with a handy pipette. Wrapping it all up is more of an acquired skill than Harry’d previously imagined, but after three demonstrations, he things he’s got it.

“Thanks,” he tells her, because his hand does feel a bit better already.

“You’re very welcome. Now off you go; my next appointment’s up in a bit.”

All in all, she hadn’t taken up more than twenty minutes of his time. On his way out, he crosses paths with a chipper-looking Neville, who waves at Harry before going straight for Zaahir.

Harry stares for a bit; he can’t help it. After saying their hellos, the two of them open their books and lean their heads together to work. Zaahir catches him looking, quirks an eyebrow. Harry hurries along before it gets too awkward.

Up in the common room, it’s still quiet. As no other form of entertainment presents itself, Harry thinks, _fuck it,_ he’ll tackle his homework—might as well, with how behind he is now. That essay on Self-Fertilizing Shrubs isn’t about to write itself, and Harry certainly can’t will it into existence.

He’s got maybe a decent paragraph by the time others come down to the common room. By then the sky is bright blue and the sun high up. Ron joins him a bit later, when he’s about written the first sentence of his second paragraph.

“By the way,” says Ron, after making it clear he thinks Harry’s a nutter for doing his homework so early, “Angelina wanted you to know we’ve got practice after lunch.”

“Sure,” says Harry. He spots Hermione coming down and waves at her. “It’s great weather for Quidditch.”

“About that...” Ron looks nervous. “You think we could go a bit earlier? I’d...like to practice for a bit, just to warm up, you know…”

“Yeah, all right.”

“And what about your homework,” Hermione says, a pointed look at Harry’s yet unfinished essay.

“Good morning,” Harry tells her.

“Yes, that,” says Ron. “Well, we can do the homework later.”

Hermione opens her mouth, but Harry interrupts, “Breakfast?” because he’s in no mood for a quarrel, and he _has_ gotten decently hungry now.

The morning paper arrives not long after they’ve sat down for breakfast. Harry has cancelled his subscription during the summer, but Hermione has kept hers despite how much she detests the Prophet and its slander. She disappears behind it as Harry bites into his toast.

“Anything interesting?” He asks after he’s swallowed.

“No,” says Hermione. “Not unless—oh, _oh no_ …”

She puts down the paper and points to the offending article. “ _The Ministry’s heard from a reliable source...Sirius Black, notorious mass murderer, resides in London!_ ”

Harry’s insides constrict. Next to him, Ron says, “Blimey”, around a mouthful of toast and eggs, and this time doesn’t even get a glare from Hermione.

“He’ll never get to leave the house now,” Hermione says. “Both Dumbledore and Mrs Weasley told him not to.” She folds the paper and throws it away, visibly dismayed.

For his part, Harry has lost his appetite. He still eats; he’s here anyway, and it’s not like he can change anything about what’s written in _The Daily Prophet_. If only they could catch _Peter_ , then perhaps Sirius could get a proper trial, be proven innocent, and then maybe, just maybe, Harry could go live with him instead of the Dursleys.

Sirius had wanted that, two years ago. He’d not mentioned it again, but really Harry wouldn’t even mind living in Grimmauld Place with the awful painting of Mrs Black, not if it meant he’d never have to see the Dursleys again.

When Ron and he go for early practice, Hermione threatens not to share her notes. At this point they should be immune to it, but she does know well when to leave them in disbalance; both of them are extremely behind, after all, and she probably knows it better than either of them.

“This is also important, though,” says Ron. “If we don’t practice, we can’t stay on the team.”

And it’s too beautiful a morning to pass up a chance at flying. With autumn closing in, they’re not likely to get good, sunny days like these often.

Once they’re up in the air, Harry feels as if a weight has come off his shoulders—free to do everything and anything. He could stay up here all day, gazing over the fields and letting the wind rush past him.

Ron’s a good flyer and a decent enough player. He stops three-quarters of the Quaffles Harry sends his way, and as they go on, Ron becomes better, possibly more alert. With a bit of practice—actual, structured practice, Ron could be great.

They go down just before lunchtime, muscles aching. Harry grins widely at Ron and claps him on the back, says, “You’ll be fine, mate,” and means it.

Of course, what he can’t have accounted for before the actual training session, is what Angelina politely calls “unwanted spectators” and Harry would more accurately describe as “pesky, nosy bastards.” Malfoy’s there with his usual gang—Crabbe, Goyle, Zabini, and Parkinson.

Ron lets their jeers get to him. It’s really the only reason why he would play so badly after doing so well in the morning. He never drops the ball, but several goals go through, and he once throws a ball so hard at Katie that she ends up with a nosebleed. The Slytherins laugh themselves into stitches.

“Come on, Ron,” says Angelina. “You’ve got to pay attention.”

Fred gives Katie a purple pill. They continue on with the training, but even Angelina can’t ignore the Slytherins forever; their screaming and laughing gets louder the worse Ron does, and they throw insults at everyone and everything they can think of, even Angelina’s braided hair.

When she introduces the Snitch, Harry forgets everything else. This is his task, and e dedicates his everything to it. He’s between his teammates, around them, above them, movements fast and fluid. He loves this, the feeling, and the snitch is just inches—

“STOP!” Angelina’s voice breaks through. “Stop—STOP.”

Everything comes to a halt, with the Snitch just out of Harry’s reach. Angelina reprimands Ron on his positioning—he’s not been paying attention to where he hovers, but Harry is more concerned about Katie, whose clothes are completely covered with her blood.

“Uh, Angelina,” Harry calls. “Katie’s not doing so well.”

He’s flown to Katie, where George also joins him. Katie’s gone awfully pale underneath all the blood, and it doesn’t seem like the stream from her nose is going to stop any time in the near future.

“She needs to go to hospital,” Angelina says when she gets a good look at Katie.

“We’ll take her,” says Fred, who now hovers next to George. “I—uh, might have given her...a Blood Blisterpod…”

“Oh—you—” Angelina sighs. “All right, then. We’ll call it a day. Harry—the Snitch.”

The mood is glum. Fred and George escort Katie away, and the rest of them put everything back where it’s supposed to be. Ron is quiet the entire time, and Harry can’t think of what to say.

Back in the common room, Hermione regards them coolly. “How was practice?”

“Terrible,” says Ron.

“Well,” Harry amends, “it wasn't _terrible_ , it just wasn’t...very good.”

“It was lousy,” Ron insists glumly.

“It was only your first day,” says Hermione, “I’m sure—”

Suddenly offended, Ron snaps, “Who said it was me who was lousy?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Hermione replies calmly, “I just—”

Ron cuts her off. “I’m going to do homework.” He stomps away, leaving Hermione to stare after him, aggrieved. Harry shrugs, but he figures it is time to get on with some of his essays.

In the evening, Harry writes a letter addressed to _Snuffles,_ and very much means it when he puts to paper that Umbridge is ‘as nice as your mum’. He has Hermione read it over just to be safe. Hedwig is happy enough to stretch her wings, as if her week in the owlery had been as terrible as Harry’s in general.

“It’s for Sirius,” he whispers to her before he sends her off.

The sky is still light enough that he can see the Forbidden Forest, its trees swaying in the wind. The sight of it is peaceful, for all that Harry knows what lurks there.

As if to prove his point, something dark and winged rises from the trees. It whirls around, flying up in a ever-widening spiral, fur gleaming. _One of those creepy horses,_ Harry realises after a second. He hadn’t thought of them in what seemed like ages, hadn’t even considered where they would stay when they’re not working the carriages. But if they’re real—if they’re in the forest, how come nobody has ever seen them before?

It swoops back down into the forest. Harry shakes his head. If he’s to go mad, he would prefer a different method, one that doesn’t include mysterious animals.

He trudges back up to Gryffindor Tower. Maybe he ought consult his friends—at the very least Hermione, who perhaps would know what this is all about. _But what if she doesn’t have an answer,_ his treacherous mind asks, _what if you really are going mad?_

Maybe if he just doesn’t think about it, it’ll go away.

In the tower, Ron and Hermione appear to be on speaking terms again. At least, Harry finds them near a window, whispering to each other, casting worried looks at a letter. Hermes perches on the table, looking as though he wants to murder something, preferably a small and furry something.

“Something happen?” Harry asks. Surely Percy wouldn’t send a letter out of the blue over nothing at all.

“Something will,” says Ron, “I’ll wring Percy’s neck.”

“Just tear up the letter instead,” says Hermione. “He’s not worth the time and effort.”

“What’s he said, then,” and Harry grabs the letter from Ron’s hand.

Not for the first time in his life, Harry wishes he’d have listened to Hermione telling him _no_ , but it’s too late now. Percy’s letter rankles; he calls Harry ‘that boy’, ‘unbalanced’ and ‘violent’, as if Harry’s some wild animal let loose for too long.

It’s too real now, in a way the whispers and side-glances haven’t been.

“Give that back,” Ron says. It takes some effort to take the letter from Harry’s clutches, but as soon as he succeeds, he tears up the letter. “This is rubbish. Percy’s a git, and that’s the end of it.”

“What’s he mean with that bit about Dumbledore,” Harry decides to ask instead.

Hermione shrugs. “That’s what we were wondering, too. Suppose we ought to keep an eye on the paper.”

The thought of _The Daily Prophet_ doesn’t sit nicely with Harry, not now it’s become so clear where he stands in the eyes of the world. _Is this what it feels like for Sirius?_ People think his godfather mad, too, and a mass murderer. How can anyone build a life like that, or even begin to gain control of what’s left of it?

The thought persists through Sunday, even after Harry’s wrapped up all of his homework, with Hermione’s approval. Ron still has to revise his essay for Astronomy, which leaves Harry to listen as Ron sings Hermione’s praises.

Sunday is gloomy. This is hardly the first Sunday that’s overcast, but to Harry it feels like a portent of—something.

He takes the bandages off his arm to look at the cuts, finds that they have healed nicely. The Dittany doesn’t sting this time, but he still re-wraps his hand just in case. And because he doesn’t want anyone to see the ugly things.

Hermione watches him curiously. “Where’d you get that?”

“Zaahir,” he says. “She said it was a cure. Dittany and Murtlap.”

“And you believed her?” Ron says.

“Well, it seems to have worked,” Harry says defensively. In any other circumstance involving Slytherins, Harry would agree with with Ron, but right now his friend’s animosity towards them is just irritating.

“Don’t be so silly, Ron,” says Hermione. “Zaahir has shown no ill will towards any of us. And it’s very natural to use Dittany; it’s the only thing that can remove cursed scars. I’m not sure about the Murtlap…”

“It soothes,” Harry explains.

“Right, that makes sense,” Hermione says, “the skin being inflamed and all…” She takes the vial, sniffs at it. “I wonder how she got it? It’s smells stronger than the kind we had to make, and I think I smell some lemon balm...” She looks to Harry. “Did she make this herself?”

He shrugs. “She didn’t say.”

“Maybe she stole it,” says Ron.

Hermione side-eyes him. “If she had, either Professor Snape or Madam Pomfrey would have noticed by now. Besides, lemon balm is an unusual addition. I can’t imagine she did it only for the smell. Did she say anything about nerve damage?”

Harry frowns at the question; it’s so specific and yet, “She concluded I didn’t have it, after pressing down on my cuts.”

“She must’ve thought it a possibility then.” Hermione nods, satisfied. “Curses do tend to go for damage to the nervous system.”

“She said that, too,” Harry says. He’s starting to feel a tad stupid for not knowing that himself, especially because of the matter of fact way both Hermione and Zaahir have imparted the knowledge.

“Why’s she even helping,” Ron grumbles.

“Because she’s nice?” says Hermione. “I don’t reckon that in Spain they have Slytherins and Gryffindors who have silly little tiffs all the time. Imagine that.”

“She uses a fountain pen,” Harry adds smartly, “so she’s probably Muggle-raised.”

“A Muggleborn in Slytherin?” says Ron, eyebrows going up. “Old Salazar must be rolling in his grave.”

“I’m not so sure, you know,” says Hermione. Both boys look at her, incredulous; after all, she’d been a victim of Slytherin’s murderous basilisk, and legend had very clearly stated Salazar had wanted only pure-bloods in his house.

Hermione says, “It’s just—the hat made no mention of such anti-Muggle sentiment. In fact, if you’d both care to recall, he’d sang about the how the founders stayed together ‘till they grew old and passed. That doesn’t exactly overlap with the tale of Slytherin leaving them behind with a secret basilisk who kills Muggle-born students.”

Now that Harry thinks about it, “Didn’t the Hat also mention something about discredit and friends being made out to be enemies?”

“Exactly!” says Hermione. “So, I’ve been thinking—what if Salazar Slytherin never hated Muggles and Muggleborns, and that’s all a lie spread to make him look bad? You know, I can’t seem to find any sources on him from his time. Everything seems to start _after_ the 16th century, which is a full six hundred years after his time.”

“What does it matter,” says Ron, “the man still left a _basilisk._ A basilisk that killed a student and petrified others, all Muggleborns.”

“Yes, but that was _after_ Vol—You-Know-Who came along.” Hermione frowns. “I don’t know, it all seems so odd and out of place. I looked them up, later, you know,” she says, quieter, "basilisks. In the oldest sources, they’re described as protectors. They last for millenia. Besides, I can’t imagine you can sneak in an entire basilisk and not have anyone else notice.”

Harry glances at Ron, who shrugs. This hadn’t really been the direction he’d expected the conversation to go, but here they are. What _do_ they know of the founders anyway? Tall tales and vague descriptions the Hat sometimes grants them in a song—never something substantial. Harry can’t imagine them being simple magicians, simple humans. They’re the _founders._

They settle in silence after that, Hermione’s words still up in the air. It seems so important, yet so elusive. The Hats warning had been a surprise, but they haven’t really thought about all its angles, all the missing pages. It’s just odd.

He’s so caught up in his thoughts, he doesn’t at first see the change in Hermione’s posture. It’s not until she says, “Oh, no, _Sirius,”_ that he snaps to attention and follows her eyes to the fireplace. Sirius’ grinning face stares back at them.

All three rush to him, if only so that nobody else can see who it is that’s in the fire. Sirius laughs at them before he gives proper greetings.

“This is risky,” Hermione says immediately.

“It’s the only way I could safely answer Harry’s letter,” Sirius replies. “Owls can be intercepted and codes can be broken.” He turns to Harry. “You scar. Now that the big bad snake is back, I think it’s bound to hurt more often.”

Harry grins at Sirius’ description of Voldemort. “So you don’t think Umbridge has anything to do with it?”

“Nah,” says Sirius. “She’s terrible, mind you—you should hear Remus’ rants about her; she’s an absolute menace—”

“What’s she done to him, then?” asks Ron.

“Well,” Sirius says, “only written and passed legislation that makes it impossible to get a job, or a home, or really anything. She doesn’t like werewolves, or half-breeds, really anyone who’s not a witch or wizard. She doesn’t like any foreign-looking people either, whatever that means.”

Harry remembers how Remus had looked, during summer—exhausted, thin, shabby. He hates Umbridge just that much more for it.

 _And I’m brown, aren’t I,_ he thinks to himself. His hair was just a tad too curly and his skin just this side of brown—light compared to Dean or Professor Sinistra, but still brown enough to be visibly non-White.

“Is she worth anything as a teacher?” Sirius asks. “I can’t imagine she can get away with teaching you how to kill half-breeds.”

“No,” Hermione says glumly. “She has us read from the textbook.”

“No magic,” Ron adds.

“Oh, that figures,” says Sirius. “Fudge has been paranoid, lately. He doesn’t want you trained in combat, as far as our informants can tell.”

“Trained in—” Harry starts. “What does he think we get up to? Does he think we’re starting of an army, here?”

“Actually,” says Sirius, “yes. He thinks Dumbledore is amassing an army.”

“Of underage children?” says Hermione. “That’s laughable.”

Sirius nods, smiling wryly.

After a pause, Ron snorts. “That—honestly, mate, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard, ever, and that includes all the things I’ve heard come from Luna Lovegood’s mouth.”

Furiously, Hermione says, “So we’re barred from a proper education because the Minister of Magic is afraid he’ll be overthrown?”

“Yep.”

They ponder that. It’s only just barely been a week since their arrival, and they have to deal with this for the rest of the year. _It’s just a year, though, isn’t it,_ because no one thus far has lasted longer than that in the position of Defence teacher.

To change the subject, Harry asks, “Have you heard anything from Hagrid?”

“No,” says Sirius. “Well, he’s supposed to have been back by now, but Madam Maxime and he seem to have parted ways. I’m sure he’s fine,” he quickly adds when the trio looks nervously between them, “he’s just delayed, is all.” After a moment, when nobody says anything, Sirius says, “Listen, for the next weekend, I could come over to Hogsmead and—”

“No!” both Harry and Hermione say.

“It’s risky, mate,” says Ron. “Didn’t you see the paper?”

“Well, yeah.” Sirius seems to shrug it off. “They constantly have leads. Gets them nowhere, though. I can just transform and hop on a train. Nobody’d be any wiser.”

“Sirius, no,” says Harry. “You could be seen. Someone could recognise you.”

“I just thought we could meet—”

Harry sighs. “I would like that, but not at the risk of having you thrown back in Azkaban. Not again.”

A pause. Sirius frowns at him, and it’s almost like he’s seeing Harry anew. Harry’s not sure whether that’s good; the look on Sirius face is suddenly inscrutable.

“James would’ve done it,” Sirius says.

Taken aback, uncertain what to even make of that, Harry says, “I'm not him.”

The conversation falls flat there. Sirius looks him over and seems to pull away with just his eyes. “All right, then,” he says. “I’ll go now. Be good, then.”

  
It sounds sarcastic. Before Harry can reply, Sirius is gone with a soft _pop._


	6. The Inquisitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, that lasts about a day. Or five. It's fifty too many.

If Monday had had any sense, it would have chosen to hold onto Sunday’s gloom. As it is, there’s a happy ray of sunshine when the owls come down, and Hermione receives her _Daily Prophet_ from one that looks like it’s been harassed into flying here.

THE MINISTRY SEEKS EDUCATION REFORM, the headline reads. Underneath its bold letters, Umbridge stares back at them with an ugly, pleased grin. DOLORES UMBRIDGE APPOINTED FIRST EVER ‘HIGH INQUISITOR’.

“What does that even _mean,_ ” Harry asks after he’s done choking on his orange juice.

Hermione reads it out loud, and the conclusion is that it’s all kinds of backwards politics with last-minute legislation for shite reasons. And whoever had quoted Percy on Umbridge being “an immediate success” obviously hadn’t spoken to anyone who’s ever been in direct contact with the woman, otherwise they wouldn’t have written that down so easily and without several hundred question marks.

“ _‘The Inquisitor_ ,” Hermione says, quoting Percy, “ _‘will have powers to inspect her fellow educators and make sure that they are coming up to scratch. Professor Umbridge has been offered this position in addition to her own teaching post, and we are delighted to say that she has accepted.’_ ”

The rest of the article is some rubbish quoting Lucius Malfoy of all people, and Harry nearly strangles his fork. At the end, Hermione puts the paper down as if it’s on fire.

“So that’s what all this is about,” she mutters. “Fudge has foisted her on us so he can have more control of Hogwarts. This is _outrageous.”_

“Oh,” says Ron, sounding far too pleased, “I don’t know. I’d like to see her try and inspect McGonagall. She’ll be flayed.”

As amusing as that thought is, the entire prospect is still terrible. They hurry on to History, but she’s not there in Binns’ class, and she’s not there in the dungeons when they have to face Snape. Harry would _pay_ to see Umbridge inspect Snape, just for the drama of it. Perhaps they would kill each other off with poisonous glares.

Snape hands them back their essays. Harry has a D, which is not wholly unexpected but still stings. It doesn’t get any better when Snape announces he graded them based on the rules for their O.W.L.s.

“I expect better results on your essays on antivenin,” he drawls, “or else I’ll hand out detentions to those who get D’s.”

Harry quickly shoves his essay into his bag. If he just does his best and keeps his head down like Professor McGonagall had suggested, perhaps he can devote more time to his homework. Perhaps he can make something out of Potions yet.

They have to pair up for the Strengthening Solution. It’s supposed to teach them the value of teamwork, not that Harry thinks Snape even knows what the word means. As Harry can get by on his own, given some concentration on his part, he leaves Hermione to pair up with Ron, and goes with Amanita Flores, who Harry knows in passing from having seen her in the Gryffindor common room.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Zaahir move to pair up with Neville. This surprises him more than it should; after all, they’d worked together in the library.

Harry reads the instructions several times. Amanita is much more precise in cutting and crushing, so he’s tasked with keeping the fire at a good level, and turning the ladle when it needs to.

Their potion isn’t clear turquoise at the end—more a gentle teal colour that leans a tad more towards blue than green.

“Oh, thank god,” Amanita whispers, “first success of the year.”

“Teamwork,” Harry whispers back. “We did good.”

Amanita nods. “He scares me so much, I can barely think.”

Harry is distinctly reminded of Neville’s boggart. He looks over to where Neville is and—

Their potion is perfect. It’s like looking into a clear blue sea at the shores of Greece. Snapes stares down at it with some dismay, because he really can’t dismiss the fact that somehow, probably with a lot of Zaahir’s help, she and Neville had produced something so flawless.

“You’re lucky Miss Zaahir was daring enough to pair up with you,” says Snape, “I can’t imagine you’d have made much of it on your own.”

“Well, sir, if you stopped intimidating your students and bullying Potter, you may have more time to teach them proper Potions etiquette,” says Zaahir. “And perhaps there would be less mistakes made because students are terrified of their teacher.”

A pin could fall and it would sound like an explosion. Snape glares down at Zaahir as if he is willing her to drop dead from the acid in his gaze, but as with Umbridge’s attempt, Zaahir appears unruffled, unimpressed, imune.

When Snape finally speaks, his voice is low. “You may have gotten away with this sort of attitude to your private tutors, Miss Zaahir, but not in this school and certainly not in my classroom.”

Zaahir inclines her head, looking at Snape as if he’s just given something away, and whatever it is, it surprises her.

He dismisses the class a little early, and they hurry out en group before he lets them sit out the remaining ten minutes, or else bites someone’s head off in revenge. Harry waves at Amanita; she’s small and quick, weaving through the crowd with urgency.

“Did you see that?” Ron says as soon as they’re far enough from the classroom. “She didn’t even get points docked. Anyone else would’ve gotten detention.”

“Yes,” says Hermione, “I think that was rather the point.”

“What d’you mean?”

Hermione breathes in sharply, stops, and turns to both of them. “You’ll have noticed Zaahir is...how do I put this…” she bites her lip, decides on, “shrewd.”

“She’s a good little serpent, yeah,” says Ron

Hermione takes a few seconds to look at him, and it prompts Harry to hurriedly say, “What about it,” before Hermione makes up her mind and outright strangles Ron.

“Well,” says Hermione, finally looking away from Ron, “she must have figured out that Snape’s not as...harsh with his Slytherins, and she’s _new_ to Hogwarts, not as familiar with the rules as everyone, so...she took the opportunity to stand up to him.”

“...That _is_ rather clever,” Harry says after a minute.

Hermione nods. “Certainly, no one else would ever dare to speak to _Snape_ like that.”

As they’re not in a hurry to get to their next class, they sort of linger in the hallway. Neville is nearby, looking rather relieved; it’s his first success in Potions too, probably of his entire career at Hogwarts. He has his mimbulus mimbletonia cradled under his arm, which is probably exactly why the entire unfortunate incident unfolds.

Malfoy jostles Neville who, in his surprise and because of the violence involved, drops his plant and his schoolbag. Something inside it breaks with an audible crunch. The potted plant suffers, too, the ceramic cracking, earth spreading out across the floor.

“Hey, sod off, Malfoy,” says Harry, stepping towards Neville.

Hermione is directly behind him. “Malfoy! You’re a Prefect; you can’t do that.”

 _Solid argumentation, ‘Mione_ , Harry thinks snappishly.

“You’ll find I can do anything I like, Granger,” says Malfoy. “And as for this,” he gestures at Neville, who is busy gathering his things, “we all know Longbottom’s a clumsy little pig, don’t we?”

“Oh, is that what you’re going to say happened.” Zaahir’s voice comes from the crowd that’s formed around them. This time Malfoy flinches _and_ goes pale, his face becoming pinched, like he’s afraid.

Zaahir comes forward, helps Neville. She vanishes the stain of ink on Neville’s bag, repots the plant he’d been holding—all as if it were nothing. Neville stays by her side.

“What’re you meddling for,” says Malfoy. “Oh, wait—Longbottom’s your new little friend, isn’t he? What, you couldn’t get anyone with a brain to like you?”

It’s the first time Harry sees Zaahir’s expression abandon it’s neutral disinterest  and settle instead for mild annoyance. “Malfoy, do you have any personality beyond bullying others and ‘my father will hear about this’?” A few jitters follow her question; while she’d said it flatly, her rendition of Malfoy’s often spouted threat is still spot on.

Malfoy splutters, which seems to annoy Zaahir even more. Suddenly, Harry understands perfectly why Malfoy flinches every time he hears her voice.

She says, “I didn’t think so. Please try and formulate a thought or two of your own, develop into a person, be your own man. And for the love of God, stop trying to get Potter’s attention like some sort of lovesick puppy with no social skills whatsoever.”

Harry’s eyebrows go up, and at the same time Malfoy turns so red, he could explode at any moment. Around them, students laugh. He’s not so sure that’s the proper reaction when one witnesses a public murder, but then, it’s _Malfoy._

At the same time, it’s really embarrassing to hear Zaahir likening Malfoy’s tendency to pick fight with him to—to a lovesick puppy trying to get his attention.

For his part, Malfoy stomps away, humiliated and unable to bring up any kind of retort. Zaahir rolls her eyes but stays by Neville’s side.

“Someone’s on a roll,” says Hermione. “That’s the second time she’s burnt someone, and it’s been less than ten minutes.” She walks further forward until she’s right in front of Neville and Zaahir. “Thank you for that. You didn’t have to.”

“Of course I did,” says Zaahir. “I don’t tolerate bullies. And Neville is my friend.”

That makes Neville go a bit red, but he just nods in response.

Harry _has_ to ask, “Is Malfoy scared of you? He flinches every time you’re near him.”

The smile on Zaahir’s face comes slowly. “He might...be wary. Of me.”

Hermione frowns. “You could get in trouble for that. Whenever something’s inconvenient for Malfoy, his father gets involved…”

The annoyance from earlier returns, except more pronounced. Zaahir’s accent loses its Scottishness and becomes decidedly Spanish when she snaps, “Lucius Malfoy has no business interfering with this school. His influence and reach is an abomination to the rights Hogwarts has.”

Surprised, Hermione lags before she says anything. “Well, it’s not only that he’s part of the governing board, really. He also has a seat on the Wizengamot, what with being the Lord of Malfoy Manor.”

That only furthers Zaahir’s annoyance. “He thinks himself a Lord? The stupidity that is the Statute of Secrecy robbed his family of that in 1692, and he very well knows it. Britain has no ruling magical families.”

Dubious, Ron asks, “How can you be so sure?”

Zaahir looks at him disparagingly. “I’m a magical Marquesa; I _ought_ know.”

“A what?” says Harry, eyes narrowed.

“A Marchioness, Harry,” Hermione says impatiently. Then, to Zaahir, “If the Statute took away noble titles, how come you still have yours?”

“For one,” Zaahir says, face coming back to its usual neutrality, “my father was non-magical, and so is this title. For another, even if my being the current Marchioness makes it magical in part, Spain never bothered to sign that idiotic document separating our magical community from it’s non-magical half. We’re doing well, thank you.”

Harry can already see the cogs whirring away in Hermione’s head, and possibly even if the bell goes, she’ll be standing here firing questions at Zaahir until her mind is satisfied. To save them all from being late, he grabs Hermione’s arm.

“As fascinating as this is,” and it really is, if he thinks about it, “we should probably move along. The bell’s probably about to go, and I’m ready for lunch.”

“Please sit with us,” Hermione says to Zaahir, to Harry’s greatest horror. “I’ve so much to ask…”

Zaahir shrugs. “Can’t imagine your House-mates will treat me any worse than Slytherins with hurt prides.”

The moment they’ve seated themselves at the table, a gaggle of first-year Slytherins appear out of nowhere. As if Zaahir’s existence near the Gryffindor table hadn’t already drawn a lot of attention already, now the other Houses are staring as well.

“Oh, my babies,” Zaahir says in a rather dramatic tone. “I haven’t abandoned you, I swear. Come now, do mingle.”

“What are _they_ doing here,” says Fred. He and George loom over the tiny Slytherins, looking as confused as Harry feels.

“I tutor them,” says Zaahir. “They adore me.”

The twins shrug, taking it much better than the rest of the Gryffindors do, but with Zaahir’s watchful gaze and sharp tongue, nobody really dares say anything too bad about their sudden influx of Slytherins. They’re rather cute and bubbly, actually, exactly as innocent as Harry remembers being.

Before Hermione can even return to the topic of the Statute and nobility, Fred leans over a baby Slytherin and asks, “Had an inspection yet?”

“No,” says Ron. “Have you?”

“Charms,” says George. “Umbridge lurked in a corner and took notes. And Flitwick—well, I can’t imagine he’d be marked down. He does a good job getting all his students through.”

Fred adds, “He was a right gentleman, too. Who’ve you got this afternoon?”

“Trelawney,” says Harry, “And then Umbridge.”

“[La gran pendeja](-),” Zaahir mutters, “in the flesh. She can’t do us all the favour of marking herself down and flying off the face of the planet.”

“Now that attitude just won’t do,” says George, to Harry specifically. “Be a good boy and don’t say anything that ruffles Umbridge’s feathers. Angelina won’t like it if you miss practice.”

“Or I can learn Spanish,” says Harry. “What was it you just said?”

Zaahir laughs. “No, absolutely not.”

Given his rotten luck, Harry is not surprised to see Umbridge appear in Trelawney’s class. She makes her entrance during the first five minutes, after the class has settled into a murmur of cheerful conversations.

Professors Trelawney stiffens, but nods in greeting. She turns to the class. “You’ll work in pairs today. Interpret each other’s dreams with help from _The Dream Oracle.”_

Trelawney does a sweep of the classroom, but Harry’s eyes are on Umbridge, as covert as he can. The ‘High Inquisitor’ takes seat near Trelawney’s desk, already writing down notes. Trelawney sees where Umbridge has sat and turns rather obviously in the opposite direction, which almost makes Harry cringe.

“So,” says Ron, “what’d you dream about.”

Harry can’t actually remember, which means it had not been a nightmare. This leaves room for too much interpretation, so he says, “I was trapped in an abyss.”

“So, abyss,” says Ron. “And what night did you dream this?”

“I don’t know,” says Harry. His eyes track Umbridge, who now trails behind Trelawney like a pink shadow. “Pick a date. Yesterday, for all I care.”

“All right, that leaves your birth date and height…”

He can’t fully hear what Umbridge was asking Trelawney; the noise in the classroom had risen again. Something about Trelawney’s tenure here, and then something about her great-great-grandmother Cassandra, the last to have been granted the gift of Sight.

“Could you predict something for me,” Umbridge asks sweetly.

At this point, Ron, too, has abandoned the ruse of working on Harry’s dream.

“Well—I…” Trelawney looks with huge eyes at Umbridge. “You can’t command the inner eye!”

Umbridge scribbles, a blank sort of smile on her face.

“Wait,” Trelawney recants, “Wait...I see something—danger; you’re in grave danger. Someone works against you, from the shadows…” Then she looks Umbridge dead in the eye and says, “At the end of the month, you will be disgraced.”

Eerily, it sounds like that strange, distant prophecy that Trelawny had made to Harry in third year, when Pettigrew had been revealed for the rat he is. She doesn’t _look_ it now, her gaze too direct and steady, too aware. It sounds like a threat.

“Right,” says Umbridge, and she makes another note. “If that is all…”

Ron and Harry exchange a look. Much as they know Trelawney to be a fraud—barring the one or two predictions she’s made in her life, they also absolutely loathe Umbridge, and perhaps this one prediction would do them a favour and _stick._

This goodwill for Trelawney’s Sight lasts about as long as it takes her to come over and predict many gruesome deaths for Harry. It has gotten old for everyone except Trelawney, who seems to see bad omens in the mere fact that Harry breathes.

Umbridge leaves first, when the bell rings. Neither Ron nor Harry is keen on double Defence, but they still arrive with enough time to spare that they can relay to Hermione what had occurred.

Hermione sighs. “Trelawney should be careful. Professor Umbridge is likely looking for any excuse to fire someone.”

They can’t even reply to that; Umbridge calls them to order. She smiles, wide and satisfied, looks at them all one by one before she gives them the order to read.

“Page nineteen,” she says, “ _Common Defensive Theories and Their Derivation_.”

Out of sheer mind-numbing boredom, and a deep curiosity as to whether Umbridge could really have them do just the reading for an entire year, Harry peruses the index. It offers nothing but despair.

And Hermione’s hand is up in the air.

This time around, Umbridge doesn’t ignore it. Instead, she makes a round through the classroom and ends at Hermione’s table, where she leans in and whispers, “What is it dear?” in the most condescending voice Harry has ever heard.

“I’ve finished chapter two, Professor,” says Hermione. “In fact, I’ve read the entire book.” Her voice is calm, clear, audible across the entire room.

“Really,” says Umbridge. She straightens up. “And what does he say about counter-jinxes, chapter—”

“Fifteen,” says Hermione. “He claims there’s no such thing. According to him, ‘counterjinx’ is just a name give to jinxes to make them sound socially acceptable.”

Even Umbridge has to admit that it’s somewhat impressive. Harry doesn’t even recall such an argument, but then, he’d barely even read the book.

“I, however, disagree,” Hermione states.

Here, Umbridge’s eyebrows shoot up. “You disagree? My, what is there to disagree about? It doesn’t matter,” she insists, when hermione tries to speak again, “you see, Miss Granger, Mr Slinkhard’s opinion is what matters in this class—”

Over on the other side of class, a chair scrapes loudly against the floor. Zaahir stands up, slings her bag over her shoulder, and strides towards the door.

“Excuse me, Miss Zaahir,” says Umbridge. “It’s not time yet for you to leave. The bell has not rung.”

“Well, Madam,” Zaahir says, “As—”

“Miss,” Umbridge corrects.

“I hadn’t even started yet, _Madam,_ ” Zaahir insists. “As you seem unwilling to teach anything useful nor do you wish to test our ability to think critically, I have deemed you incompetent as a teacher. Therefore, I find my time better spent looking for and _reading_ material that enriches the mind and calls for practice in the art of Defence. This double hour is a complete waste of my time, so I take my leave. Good day, Madam.”

She’s out of class before Umbridge can even blink, not that it stops Umbridge from shouting ot into the hall. “It’s Miss,” she says, pathetic. “Detention, Miss Zaahir!”

“Actually,” Hermione mutters, and then does the one thing Harry could never in his dreams imagine she would do—

“Don’t you dare, Miss Granger—”

Hermione takes her bag and leaves. The Ron shrugs and follows. After him, it’s a barrage of students who leave, never mind the threat of detention. None of them can possibly know what’s in store for them in detention with Umbridge—not that she could give them all the quill to work with, not all at once.

In a split-second decision, Harry remains seated. He’s had his week of detention with her; she can’t possibly punish the only person to obey the rules.

Umbridge glowers at him.

He gets early dinner. For once, Harry is not the centre of attention when it comes to the whispers. He could kiss Zaahir and tells her so, when she comes to sit with them. Her baby Slytherins almost form a wall around her.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” She tells him blandly. “You’re not my type anyway.”

“What _is_ your type?” George asks gamely.

“Redhead, in fact,” Zaahir says with a wide grin. It’s the first time Harry sees so many of her teeth, and it catches him off-guard. She’s rather pretty. “But you’re shite out of luck, Weasley; I’m committed to my serpent children.”

“I’m _wounded_.”

“Fret not, dear heart,” but whatever she means to end with, they’ll never find out. Zaahir loses the twinkle in her eye, sighs. It takes a moment for them to see Snape comes gliding towards them. “Oh, here it comes. Woe is me.”

“Miss Zaahir,” Snape intones. He jerks his head towards the door and has Zaahir follow him out.

“That can’t be good,” says Ron, with actual sympathy. The baby Slytherins look worried, whisper among themselves. At least they stay seated.

Hermione grimaces. “She did cause a massive walk-out. She could be expelled.”

Zaahir’s little serpents look stricken. Harry feels for them, if only because he thinks what Zaahir had done is rather brilliant, even if it had stretched the limits of what she could get away with.

She returns far quicker than they expect, and in a far more cheerful mood than one who has just been told her punishment. It’s like she’s just been told it’s her birthday. “Two weeks,” she announces, “Plenty of time.”

“For _what,_ ” asks Harry.

“[Oh, amor, si te lo digo no sería una sorpresa _._](-)”

“That’s so sexy,” says George. “Do it again.”

“No.”

Neville manages to sneak through the wall of baby snakes and sit right next to Zaahir. “Aren’t you worried?” he says. “You’ve made an enemy of the Slytherins, and now it’s _her._ ”

Zaahir laughs. “Oh, Neville, I’ve had enemies far more dangerous and frightening crushed under my heel. And I do like to wear the pointier ones.”

“You’re scary,” one of the Slytherins says. She’s far too gleeful about it.

***

Nobody congratulates him on _not_ getting detention. Harry feels robbed; it takes effort not to get pissed off at Umbridge. Not everyone is as cunning and classy as Zaahir, and she’d gotten two weeks’ worth of detention in one single afternoon.

It’s still the topic of everyone’s whispers the next morning. Zaahir herself is still chipper over yonder at the Slytherin table, surrounded as ever by a circle of first-years. The older Slytherins were eying her with a variety of expressions—from confusion to outright distaste.

At least they don’t have Slytherin during Charms, which makes the class on the whole rather peaceful. The _real_ drama comes in Transfiguration, where Umbridge makes her rather unfortunate appearance.

All eyes go to Zaahir. She takes this rather serenely, doesn’t even seem aware that Umbridge is there, throwing her a mean glare.

Professor McGonagall starts the class without even a glance at Umbridge. “Most of you have managed to vanish the snails. Today you will make the attempt on mice. Mr Finnigan, if you would please hand out—”

“Hem hem.”

“—and miss Brown, get this box of mice, don’t be silly, girl—”

“Hem, hem.”

“Do you require a cough drop, Dolores.” Professor McGonagall’s frown is a thing of legend, her dark brows furrowed together in annoyance. She sounds sincere, though.

Seamus hands Harry his essay and continues on. With great relief, Harry sees he got an E, the second-highest grade. He would sacrifice more of his evenings and weekends if he could replicate this result.

In the meanwhile, Umbridge deigns to answer Professor McGonagall’s query. “I wondered if you’d received my note, Professor,” and there’s that awful girly smile again, “telling you of the date and time of this inspec—”

“Well, if I hadn’t I imagine I’d ask what you were doing in my classroom.” Professor McGonagall turns her back on Umbridge, her focus now on the class. “As I said, today you shall make an attempt at vanishing mice. This is made difficult by the fact that unlike snails, mice are vertebrates—”

“Hem hem,” comes the little pathetic cough again.

“I don’t imagine,” says Professor McGonagall with a quiet, cold sort of fury, “that you can do much of an inspection if you don’t allow me to teach. You see, I do not generally appreciate or allow people to talk whilst I am talking.”

She might as well have slapped Umbridge across the face. The entire class looks on in sheer fascination as the two women stare at each other. Under McGonagall’s fiery gaze, Umbridge quietly relents.

Harry grins through the entire lesson, and at the end he actually manages to vanish the entire mouse, much to his own surprise. He’s far from the first to do so—Zaahir manages in just the first three attempts, and Hermione follows close behind merely five minutes later. It does nothing to diminish Harry’s glee.

Unfortunately, it’s not the last they see of Umbridge for the day. She waits alongside Professor Grubby-Plank, clipboard on her arm.

“If I see more of her, I’ll hurl,” Ron mutters.

“That’s a waste of your lunch,” says Harry.

Umbridge fires her questions immediately, asking Professor Grubby-Plank about her task as substitute, and turning the conversation towards Hagrid’s absence. It gets her nothing; Grubby-Plank knows no more about Hagrid’s whereabouts and had apparently only received a letter shortly before the start of term.

She happily tells Umbridge how glad she is with the post, how pleasant she finds her work at Hogwarts, almost gets lost in the details of what she teaches.

“Well, _you_ certainly seem to know your work,” says Umbridge, and Harry nearly lurches forward, but Hermione pushes a bony elbow into his side.

Grubby-Plank looks at Umbridge sideways. “It certainly helps that Professor Hagrid has given them a good grasp of that basics. I only have to help them along to the O.W.L.s, and that’s a simple enough task.”

Umbridge hums, not that she seems convinced. She stalks around the students after that, though she keeps her distance from Zaahir, who could very much be planning Umbridge’s demise, given the mean look in her eye.

Halfway through, when they’ve all settled into studying the movements of their assigned bowtruckles, Umbridge approaches Goyle and says, “I’ve heard there have been some injuries in this class?”

Malfoy perks up and opens his mouth to speak, but the sound that comes out is pained. The problem seems to be with his foot.

“Oh, Malfoy, I’m so sorry.” Zaahir makes it sound honest, too. “Sorry, I honestly didn’t think I was so close…”

“You idiotic wench,” Parkinson calls out.

“Language, Miss Parkinson,” Professor Grubby-Plank calls back.

If Umbridge had hoped to get an answer after that, she is met with disappointment. Malfoy says nothing, not in the least because Zaahir stays so near he can probably feel her breath against his neck.

“Serves him right,” says Ron.

After class, Malfoy intercepts Zaahir just as she reaches the doors. Harry lags behind, pulling at Ron, who alerts Hermione; whatever’s about to unfold, it’s bound to be both fascinating and amusing.

“You can’t just humiliate me like that—” Malfoy begins.

“Oh, but I _can_ ,” Zaahir happily tells him. “You make it so easy.”

Malfoy goes red in the face. “You won’t—”

“Get away with this? Your father will hear about it? Oh, dear,” Zaahir pouts. “Whatever shall I do?”

Several people have gathered nearby now, keen on witnessing what has quickly become yet another roasting of one Draco Malfoy. Zaahir looks completely in her element, a smile on her face that has sharp edges.

“Now, listen,” she says. “My sympathy for you has run out. You may fancy yourself better than me because I’m a ‘half-blood’ or whatever, so let’s see how that holds up under scrutiny, yes?”

“What—”

Zaahir continues as if Malfoy hadn’t spoken. “I’ve aced every challenge the Professors have set up despite my father being non-magical. Parkinson there has barely managed to vanish a snail, so I fear for the mice. Hermione Granger has, as far as I can tell, gotten top marks in all her years at Hogwarts, and she has the distinct disadvantage of having not one, but _two_ non-magical parents. Goyle here can barely make a decent potion.” She taps her finger against her lips mockingly. “It’s almost as if magical parentage, or the lack thereof, has no bearing on magical abilities. Curious!”

“That doesn’t—”

“You may insist that an inbred cesspool of families calling themselves ‘pure-blooded’ is far superior than the rest of us, but I assure you, the evidence doesn’t back that claim up. And if you’re so unwilling to scrutinise the things your parents have told you, well then I pity you. Except, I don’t, really.”

Without another word, she pushes past him and his friends, disappears into the corridor.

Hermione sighs. She’s gone a bit red in the face, but it fades away. “Malfoy should stop instigating his own public slaughter.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” says Harry, “it’s rather entertaining.”

Unfortunately, Malfoy seems to learn his lesson. He sulks as far away from Zaahir as he can for the first two days, not that she seems to care. The rest of Slytherin house seems to catch on that they’d better keep her as a friend rather than make an enemy of her, as does the rest of the school.

Harry takes his detention-free evenings to go out and fly with Ron who, without Slytherin interference, gains more confidence as he goes. They also do homework, because if there has been one takeaway from the first week of term, it’s that there can be no falling behind in this year.

Whilst his overall performance improves, his grade for Potions essays doesn’t go higher than a P. Even Neville surpasses him, despite the one rare A Harry gets once.

“Salah helps me out on Saturdays,” Neville tells Harry during lunch on Friday, “I’m sure she won’t mind if you join us.”

“You should,” says Hermione. “There’s only so much I can do for you _and_ help Ron at the same time.”

So Harry wakes early on Saturday and trudges along with Neville, who turns out to be one of those rare breed of morning people. Zaahir herself does not seem as cheerful, at least, not until after she’s had Winky deliver her some tea.

 _So that’s how she got the note in my dorm,_ Harry thinks as he idly observes Winky pop in and out of the library. The elf brings them a large tray of breakfast and seems much happier than Harry remembers from last year.

“She was rather drunk, when I found her,” Zaahir explains. “Dobby had suggested Dumbledore take her in, but she wasn’t very happy. Now I’ve taken her under my wing and she’s gotten attached. The feeling is mutual, of course.”

“Do you just,” Neville says, “gather up strays.”

“ _Yes._ ”

After their hearty breakfast, she takes them through their essays and explains their mistakes, answers their questions, and corrects their mistaken assumptions. Harry almost looks in disgust at his own writing; it’s so simple, when she explains it, and yet his errors are so basic…

“Don’t look so glum, Nev,” she says. “You’re not as terrible at Potions as you’ve been lead to believe—neither of you.” She caps her pen. “You, Neville, are exceptional at Herbology. You know your plants, their aspects, their benefits, and their interactions. If you look at Potions from that angle, you can go on to do great things.”

It’s too bad Harry isn’t as brilliant at Herbology. Zaahir looks him over, pensive. “You are good at following instructions when you pay attention, though not as good as Hermione. That’ll eventually be her downfall, but for now her work is flawless. _You,_ ” she points at him with her pen, “are much better at quick improvisation. If you were to master the basics of Potions, you could do excellent work.”

“Right.” He raises his brows in disbelief.

But then she does go over the basics with them, all the way back to first year material, and it all clicks again in his head. He can distantly hear Snape in his head, but Zaahir quickly supplants that with her own.

 _How much knowledge did I miss out on because Snape hates me?_ Harry had come to Hogwarts with twinkling eyes and a desire to soak up in the fantasy of it all. Potions hadn’t seemed so terrible then, not until Snape had come sweeping in, dark and brooding, with a snarl on his lips and a mean gleam in his eye.

But he _had_ given them the knowledge. In between the snide remarks and the blatant favouritism towards Slytherin, Snape had not once failed to impart some knowledge. It’s just his attitude that is...questionable.

Zaahir dismisses them after two hours—“I’ve got baby serpents to tutor,” and Harry has no idea how she keeps up with her own coursework, what with detention and tutoring what seems to be all the first-years and some second-to-fourth years. His scars have faded; hers have just begun.

Neville and he wander up to the tower without haste, discussing Potions and plants all the way. Harry’s never been truly interested in Herbology, but now that he pays attention to what Neville says, he learns more in ten minutes than he ever recalls hearing from Professor Sprout.

“So Dittany’s a name given to a variety of herbs?” he asks Neville.

“Yeah,” says Neville, “ _Origanum Dictamnus_ is the most commonly used, both for flavouring food and medicinal purposes. It’s actually become rare…”

They continue on to the Great Hall after they drop off their bags, not so much to eat as much as to join their peers. By that time, Harry has half a mind to go and make his own version of Essence of Dittany, and instead decides to write down his thoughts.

“I take it your study session went well,” says Hermione.

Harry hums. He suddenly sees the brilliance of adding lemon balm, but he’s curious if lemon oil would have a similar effect and—what if you add the Essence of Murtlap to the Essence of Dittany? He should ask next time.

When Monday rolls around once more, Harry is almost eager for Potions. He takes a table at the front of the class, much to Ron’s dismay. Hermione takes it in stride.

The board’s much easier to read, so he doesn’t have to put time in deciphering Snape’s handwriting. This means he has time to actually take in what’s written and consider exactly what each thing is, and how they exist in relation to each other.

He grins widely. It’s an antivenom for the bite of a British viper. He could improve that, actually, if he were to just…

At the end of the lesson he has a clear potion with a bronze edge to it. Snapes eyebrows go up so high, Harry suspects they may well fly off. The potion _feels_ right, which is a first, and it certainly has left Snape speechless.

“Potter,” Snape barks at him. “You will write me an essay detailing what you did to this potion. The rest of you,” he turns to the class, “will write essays on ingredients, both common and rare, that can make up antivenin.”

From the other side of the room, Zaahir mouths, _I told you so._ Harry grins widely.

“What _did_ you do?” Hermione asks as soon as they’re dismissed.

“I shan’t reveal my secrets just yet.” He basks in the knowledge that he’s done something amazing, perhaps even unprecedented—certainly it’s the first time he’s done so well in Potions.

Even the lessons with Umbridge can’t lessen his new-found enthusiasm. She’s become wary of Hermione now, especially since none of her tactics dissuade Hermione from a class-wide discussion. To their great surprise, Millicent Bulstrode copies a page from Hermione’s book and poses all sorts of questions about the course material, even going so far to come up with sources that outright contradict Mr Slinkard’s assertions.

“I’m just curious, Professor,” says Bulstrode, “who we should believe. I’m under the impression Mr Slinkard has never—”

“That’s enough, Miss Bulstrode,” says Umbridge, “no more talking.”

That’s when Malfoy speaks up. “No, but I’m curious as well, Professor, how we’re supposed to take a Defence book seriously, when Mr Slinkard argues for conflict avoidance—”

“That’s _enough_ , Mr Malfoy.” Umbridge’s nostrils flare. “You are here to learn, not to discuss—”

“Teach us something, then,” Bulstrode says.

“I will not stand for this insubordination, Miss Bulstrode.” She sighs delicately. “I do not wish to give you detention, but—”

“Well, you can’t,” says Zaahir. “I’ve got you all to myself.”

The Slytherins laugh, and even some Gryffindors giggle along. Umbridge goes red to the very roots of her mousy hair, and it doesn’t really suit her, what with her complexion and the passionate love affair with the colour pink.

Still, Harry is glad when the hour is over and done with. He’s grown tired of Umbridge, and Defence is no longer any fun. They haven’t had a good teacher since Remus; Barty Crouch Jr. as Moody doesn’t count, not in the slightest.

Umbridge doesn’t appear at the staff table that evening. It’s for the best, really; Harry’s grown tired of seeing her toad face, and by now he’s certain that’s an insult to all toads around the world. Take Trevor, for instance, who has been by Neville’s side for years—a fine amphibian companion if Harry’s ever seen one. He just doesn’t deserve his name to be besmirched like that.

MINISTRY UNDER FIRE, the paper tells them on Friday morning of the third week of term, KING OF SPAIN DEMANDS EXPLANATION FOR TORTURE OF STUDENT.

“No way,” says Ron, his voice nearly drowned out by the many sounds of surprise that erupt across the Great Hall.

 _“Dolores Umbridge, recently appointed Hogwarts High Inquisitor, has been charged with child abuse and endangerment, following a letter from King Juan Carlos I of Spain, accusing her of using a dark artifact on a young Spanish expatriate.”_ Hermione takes in a deep breath. “ _Marchioness_ _Salah Alaia Zaahir de la Casa Serpentina, 15, has sent letters directly to the King, detailing the terrible abuse she suffered for a week. Her late parents had wanted her to visit Hogwarts to expand her knowledge and experience of magic.”_

_“Contrary to a previous report of Professor Umbridge being well-liked, Miss Zaahir claims the teacher has only been disruptive and incompetent in her job. Says she, ‘Madam Umbridge has done little to improve our practical knowledge of Defence. In fact, she has outright stated a refusal to teach us any magic at all. When I, in turn, decided I would not remain in such a dismal class, she resorted to torture.’_

_“Readers may note the picture above. This is Miss Zaahir’s hand, upon which the words ‘I must respect my superiors’ have been carved into skin. According to Miss Zaahir, the quill used to write these lines on parchment is cursed to use the writer's own blood!”_

_“She is not the only, nor the first to receive such punishment, she says. ‘Harry Potter got detention before I did— for speaking his mind, no less.'”_

_“Minister Fudge, who appointed—”_

Hermione stops reading, disbelief clear in her voice as on her face. “I can’t believe it.”

“No wonder Umbridge isn’t up there,” Ron says, “she must’ve been arrested!”

Harry can only hope. “But how did she even do it? I could barely keep up with all the homework and she just—writes a letter to the King. Of Spain!”

“I’m just that good,” Zaahir tells him. Harry almost jumps out of his seat; she’s right behind him, hand in hand with two teeny Slytherins. “What did I miss? Ooohh, dramatic. Me encanta _._ ”

“What Trelawney said ended up true,” Neville says suddenly.

“Blimey,” says Ron, “you're right!”

At the same moment, Dumbledore rises from his seat. It doesn't take long for the Hall to quiet down; the headmaster commands more respect than Umbridge could ever dream of.

“As you have just read,” Dumbledore says, “Dolores Umbridge has been detained on terrible charges. It is with great pain and regret that we learned of her abuse of Hogwarts’ students. I urge you to speak to your Head of House if you require counselling. As for your Defence classes,” he pauses, considering, “we are currently in discussion with an individual who is happy to take the task. Hopefully you will have a new Defence teacher by Monday.” He sits back down.

“Oh, _really_ ,” says Ron. “How can they be so fast? I thought Dumbledore couldn’t find anyone to take the post—that’s why we had Umbridge.”

“It better not be Snape,” says Harry.

 They’ll just have to wait and see.


	7. The Weekend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New professor, new era.
> 
> Or: Harry's budding [bi]sexuality rears it's beautiful, shiny head

They don’t catch a glimpse of their new teacher until lunch, by which time Harry is euphoric thanks to the E he’d gotten on his essay. So gleeful is he, in fact, that he completely misses the newcomer at the staff table until Ginny comes along.

“He’s nice,” she says, since she’s apparently already had a class with him. “Unorthodox. He reminds me a bit of Bill, if Bill had come from the North.”

Harry can’t disagree with her assessment; the man who sits next to Professor Flitwick seems tall, and his hair is so red it could well catch fire at any moment. It’s long and falls in waves, though the man promptly ties into a knot. His beard is impressive, as is the amount of freckles that dot his face.

“He’s so handsome…” he hears Lavender say to Parvati.

_ Oh no, _ Harry thinks. His mind grants him vivid flashbacks of his second year, when Lockhart had been all the rage among the female population of Hogwarts.

It’s not that the man is  _ not _ handsome—which, actually, if Harry thinks of it for a moment, is a bit of a strange realisation, because the new teacher is, in fact, rather handsome, and now he’s  _ staring… _

“We’ll have to see how good he is at his job, won’t we,” Hermione says briskly.

They don’t have to wait long, though the hour Ron and Harry have of Divination seems to stretch on forever. Trelawney does not notice the impatience of the Gryffindors, perhaps because it makes them work through their assignment faster, perhaps because the Hufflepuffs remain as cool as a cucumber.

But pass the hour does, and half the class bolts out of the tower, halted only briefly thanks to the ladder. Lavender and Parvati make it first to the Defence classroom. Harry and Ron make it at about the same time as Hermione appears, Zaahir at her side.

“Is this what second year was like?” Hermione asks.

_ “Yes,” _ Ron and Harry say.

“I don’t think I want to know,” says Zaahir. At the very least she looks amused.

Their classroom is empty of desks and chairs, which starts and excited murmur among the students. Their professor waits for them at the opposite side of the room, arms crossed. His hair is down in a messy fall of waves, and as he stands against the large windows, the light of the sun makes it shine brightly.

_ Oh shit, _ thinks Harry,  _ he really is handsome. _ That requires further analysis.

“Leave your bags against that wall, please.” It’s a mellow baritone, one easy to follow. “That’s right, thank you.”

They wait around expectantly. There is a span of roughly five minutes in which they gaze at their professor and he observes each of them in return. His eyes linger briefly on Harry, though not for a moment does he seem to look at the scar.

“Well, hello,” he says after the moment passes. “I am Harold Oswin—Professor Oswin, to you. Now that you know my name, let’s discuss the rules.” He clasps his hands together. “I expect you to respect me and each other in this classroom. Vendettas and rivalries stay outside the door. I will not often hand out detentions, but if I find you wilfully hurt or sabotage another student, you will face appropriate consequences.” He pauses to look them over, brown eyes clear and sharp. “I do not deduct House points—I’m of the opinion that the practice is divisive and ultimately counterproductive. If and when you misbehave, I will discuss this with you. Have I made myself clear?”

A murmur of assent follows. Professor Oswin smiles brightly back at them, and that is the exact moment Harry knows their lives have much improved.

“On today’s program,” says Professor Oswin, “Shield charms. You will pair up. One of you will try a jinx, the other will cast the Shield charm. A demonstration. You,” he points at Zaahir and motions for her to step forward.

Zaahir looks at him as if he has some nerve, but she approaches him nonetheless. She stands relaxed, wand out. Professor Oswin raises a brow, but says nothing, until—

“Expelliarmus,” as he points at Zaahir.

The scarlet flash races forward like lightning, but Zaahir is somehow faster, deflects the charm entirely. It lands behind her, and in the same second she throws a  _ Stupify _ at Professor Oswin. The red flash crashes against his wordlessly conjured shield.

“That was not a shield, Miss…”

“Zaahir,” she says serenely. “Sorry—habit.”

Professor Oswin turns to the class. “Now, do not think to try that,” he says pointedly. “We will build up to that in due time. The spell is  _ Protego. _ Now, pair up!”

What follows is the most engaging Defence class of the year thus far. Against Professor’ Oswin’s warning, some overeager Slytherins and foolish Gryffindors try to deflect spells rather than raise up a shield and end up thrown across the room or rendered completely immobile. Professor Oswin spends five minutes lecturing each.

Harry pairs up with Ron. Somewhere near them Hermione goes up against Amanita who, despite the timid look about her, apparently casts a few mean jinxes.

“Sorry!” Amanita says when she causes Hermione to drop her wand.

“It’s fine!” Hermione says. “You just surprised me.”

Ron, whilst and excellent strategist, lags somewhat behind when it comes to duelling. Harry has quick reflexes and gut feelings on his side, and not once does he feel truly threatened, or even challenged. His shield charm needs work, though; Ron gets a body bind through, and Harry gets him back with a stun.

With thirty minutes left to go, Professor Oswin calls them to a stop. Amanita fires a final jinx at Hermione, whose shield does an excellent job of dispelling it.

“Very good, Miss Granger,” says Professor Oswin. “You have all given me a good idea of where you stand on Defence. Of course, this classroom is a controlled environment.” He pauses glances at a few faces. “Has anyone here ever been in a real duel?”

Harry hesitates. The last time he’d mentioned his duel with Voldemort, he’d been given detention and tortured for it. The thing with Malfoy in second year doesn’t count; it might as well have been scripted. Fortunately, Zaahir raises her hand, which gets her more than a few strange looks.

Professor Oswin rolls his eyes. “Of course you have, you fiend. Anyone else?”

Only Harry raises his arm then, uncertain, tentative. Professor Oswin sees this and nods, considers this for a few seconds.

“All right, then. I have a challenge.” he motions with both hands for Harry and Zaahir to come to him. “Face each other. Whoever wins the duel gets to test their skill against me. Yes?”

Harry’s not sure how to feel about that; his last duel, the one with Voldemort, had been life-and-death, and he’d barely made it out, leg broken and Cedric dead. Zaahir’s not nearly as much of a threat, though she seems experienced enough to be a difficult opponent.

But he won’t back down.

They stand across from each other, Zaahir relaxed, and Harry more tense than he should be. It probably shows. Professor Oswin marks an outline for their arena.

Harry fires the first shot as soon as Professor Oswin gives the sign. Like before, Zaahir deflects the  _ Expelliarmus _ masterfully; it flies back at Harry and nearly hits him. He dodges at the last moment and shoots back with  _ Stupefy _ , only to have it thrown back at him with ease.

She doesn’t cast any spells of her own. Zaahir never even casts a shield; it’s like Harry can do nothing to ruffle her. He manages to make her dodge away once or twice, but in the end he’s always defending against his own spells.

Five minutes later, she just about has him figuratively backed against a wall, now with her spells crashing against his shield. He has barely used anything but the disarming, stunning and petrifying spells, but they are nothing compared to what Zaahir does—creative, vicious. 

And yet it feels so mild, like gentle waves lapping at his feet. 

She says her spells in Spanish rather than in Latin, and on the tenth Harry’s shield breaks down. He rolls to the side and stands up only for flames to come his way, and his shield is up quicker this time, almost as a reflex.

He notices far too late that Zaahir is nowhere in sight. Her wand presses against the back of his neck. He curses.

“That decides it then,” says Professor Oswin. The entire class seems to breathe out at once. “Exciting, that. Potter, is it?” he says to Harry, who nods. “You’re quick, but you rely too much on your reflexes.  Strategy is your weak point, as well as situational awareness. But, well done!”

“That was amazing, Harry,” says Ron. “She went off at you.”

Harry shrugs. Now that his duel with Zaahir is over, he sweats profusely, and his breath comes out in uneven pants. He’s exhausted, and the adrenaline that had kept him going ebbs away.

Zaahir looks perfectly poised, breaths even, expression neutral. There’s no hint she’s recently been in a duel, and that’s just unfair.

Hermione says, “I think she went easy on Harry.”

Ron shoots her an incredulous look, and Harry would agree, but there had been times he had almost felt it, when he’d seen a gleam in Zaahir’s eyes—like she could just crush him at any moment but had held back.

“Shall we?” says Professor Oswin. He stands where Harry had stood, opposite Zaahir.

Her stance shifts. It’s not as relaxed as before, but it’s not tense either. Even Professor Oswin’s body language is different from before, as if he’s a lion waiting to jump its prey. The class holds its collective breath.

This time Zaahir says,  _ “espejo.” _ A mirror appears, which she proceeds to shatter in what seems like a million pieces.

What unfolds is a spectacle of skill and movement that has them all gasp more times than Harry can count. The duelists move so fluidly, nothing seems to quite touch them—not once do they raise shields; they deflect, dodge, twist, turn, jump away.

Zaahir drops her robe mere minutes into the duel. At first Harry thinks she wears a long black skirt, but it’s actually a pair of wide-legged trousers, tailored perfectly to her waist. It’s an odd choice, given that it  _ isn’t _ among the uniform options.

A minute later, the duel goes silent. Neither party seems to be uttering any spells at all, but still their wands flash with them. They don’t seem anywhere near to giving in, either, and if Harry didn’t know any better, he’d say they were dancing.

It ends in a draw. The entire class breathes a sigh of relief.

“Is that a knife, Miss Zaahir,” says Professor Oswin. His wand is pressed under her jaw, and hers against his ribs. They can’t see where her other arm is.

“Maybe,” she replies calmly.

They step away at the same time. Zaahir grabs her robes and stands back. Her breaths come out a little faster, but aside from that she seems entirely composed.

“So, class,” says Professor Oswin. “That is the level I want you to strive for. And if you apply yourselves to it, you may have it by your seventh year. Yes, I say seventh,” he adds, when several students utter their disappointment, “because what you have just seen takes more than dedication—it takes experience. It takes knowledge, and even a smidge of talent. It takes the innate understanding that any slip up means death is an undeniable certainty.” He sighs. “You are still children. It’s bad enough that two of your colleagues know what duelling is like. I do not wish to take your childhood away from you so soon.”

He dismisses them, then, five seconds before the bell goes. It takes a moment for everyone to move and gather up their bags, but eventually they do.

“That was absolutely mental!” Ron says as they leave.

“It was very entertaining,” Hermione says. “And educational. Certainly not something we would have seen in Umbridge’s class.”

Harry doesn’t even know what to say, other than, “She  _ was _ going easy on me.”

_ I told you so, _ Hermione says with a bland look at him. “I don’t think either of them went all out at the end, actually.”

“You must be joking, Hermione,” says Ron. “What they did was insane!”

She doesn’t really reply beyond a low hum. Of course, by the time they reach the Great Hall, today’s duel is that talk of the evening. Someone actually goes and suggests Zaahir should have duelled Umbridge, which is something Harry would actually now pay to see happen.

Neville waves at someone behind them as they sit. Zaahir takes seat next to Neville a moment later and a deep sigh escapes her.

“What must I do to  _ not _ to constantly be in the public mouth,” she says.

“Stop being awesome?” Neville grins at her glare.

“Where did you learn to fight like that?” Ron asks.

She seems to stop for a moment, eyes downcast, her hand reaching towards her cup. Zaahir doesn’t answer immediately, she takes a large gulp first, then looks at Ron. “I had to. It’s the trouble with being a magical Marchioness; people want to kidnap you, or kill you. So when the devil comes knocking at your door, you’d best know how to send him back to hell.”

It makes the table go quiet. Harry feels a well of sympathy, all of a sudden, and a keen understanding that everything about Zaahir comes from sheer willpower.

***

The autumn sun persists, and so their first weekend out to Hogsmeade is crowded. For once, Harry is completely caught up with his homework, which is a new and refreshing feeling.

Hogsmeade takes the sudden influx of students well. They split off into groups and wander the streets laughing and chittering. Harry sees Cho about with a group of her friends, and again she waves at him.

Ron elbows him. “Reckon you have a chance with her?”

Harry does not know what to say to that. He’d certainly had a crush on her last year, and she’s still as lovely and amazing as she’d been before, but he looks at her now, hair swaying in the wind, and recognises something fragile between them, something he’d rather not break.

Besides which, the past few weeks has been riddled with some earth-moving realisations about—people. People Harry thinks are attractive or not.

For instance, Hermione looks nice with her deep brown skin and her wildly curling hair. Ron’s not bad, and would be a handsome bloke if he were ever to put his mind to it. Ginny is several levels of cool and pretty, especially now she seems to have found the ability to talk to Harry.

Professor Oswin, who is now out and about in Hogsmeade, is possibly a god. Harry’s of a strong enough constitution that he doesn’t swoon, but some weird things do settle in his stomach whenever Professor Oswin pulls his hair up into a bun, and smiles with his somewhat crooked teeth.

So he says to Ron, “I don’t know. I’m broadening my options.” Whatever that means.

He catches Zaahir walking with Neville. Ginny and Luna trail behind him, hand in hand—  

Harry narrows his eyes. Ron isn’t looking, but Harry sees the exact moment Ginny leans over and kisses Luna’s cheek. He stops moving, but the four of them round a corner and he doesn’t see them at all anymore.

Hermione catches his eye. She’s seen it too, and with a glance at Ron and a brief shake of her head, she tells him,  _ don’t tell Ron. _ At least not until Ginny is ready, Harry supposes.

“Well, I do need a new quill,” Hermione says. They’re stood next to a little quill shop.

To Harry’s disappointment, the shop doesn’t have any fountain pens, and he doesn’t dare ask the shopkeep for any. He buys a brand new pot of ink, since he’s here, and eyes some of the fancier quills.

Every few seconds, his mind returns to Ginny and Luna. Once upon a time, Ginny had had a terrible crush on him. He’s glad to see her grow out of it, because he can appreciate more of her like this, when she can look him in the eye and speak to him as an equal.

He even sees the pair occasionally, without Zaahir and Neville. Hermione and he manoeuvre Ron around so that he doesn’t catch sight of his sister, and it’s half a wonder Ron doesn’t notice any of it.

But it makes Harry think of...kissing people—boys. It’s a painful sort of process, because he’d heard the Dursleys speak of boys who like boys and girls who like girls. It hadn’t been pleasant, and he must’ve been all of seven years old at the time. It had hurt, then, how they’d said  _ faggots _ and told Dudley that  _ that kind _ were meant for hell—hurt in more ways than one, hurt Harry in a place he couldn’t identify.

The truth is—so he’d had this crush on Cho, right? Except, when it had come down to the Yule Ball, he’d spent more time looking at Cedric in all his easy charm and dapper suit than he had looked at Cho with her brilliant smile and rosy cheeks.

It’s a revelation of sorts, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

On Sunday, he goes to Ginny. She’s out looking at the Great Lake, her red hair tied back in a high ponytail. She sees him and smiles prettily and says, “Hullo, Harry.”

“I saw you with Luna, yesterday,” Harry blurts out, and then curses himself for making the smile drop off her face.

Ginny brings up her chin. “What of it?”

“No, nothing I just—” Harry gulps in a deep breath. “I just thought it was nice—brave even. I didn’t really think it was...possible.”

She studies him for a long moment, as if he were a book she can read. Harry tries not to squirm, and up doing exactly that anyway, and then looks away.

“I didn’t think it was brave,” she tells him, “I thought it was honest. I like Luna, and she likes me back. If in the end we’re not meant to be, that’s that.”

“Simple, huh?” he says. 

“If a dark wizard is scheming out there to ruin our lives, I figure I’d best live mine to the fullest.” He hears her smile more than he sees it. “And if I like both girls and boys, then I won’t deny myself the chance at happiness.”

They sit in silence after that, and Harry imagines a world where he is as daring as Ginny Weasley, the girl who had survived a tortuous second year and takes chances like dating a girl known for being a bit crazy.

Maybe, just maybe, he can take inspiration from that.


	8. The Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October: autumn, Quidditch, and the return of a dear friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I have been busy with work. Updates will continue once a week, on either Monday or Friday.

After the one sunny weekend, October becomes dreary with dark clouds and heavy rainfall. Harry finds Ginny’s companionship soothing on the lonelier days, especially when Ron and Hermione pick up their bickering once again. These days, being around Ginny means also being around Luna, which Harry comes to mind much less as the weeks come and go.

Saturday mornings are for Potions discussions with Zaahir and Neville. Zaahir has somehow managed to bring along half her family’s library where it concerns potions and their ingredients. Hermione becomes so envious of Harry’s sources, she all but drags Ron along to the Saturday meetings.

“Oh, dear,” Zaahir says when she sees them come in with Harry and Neville. “We don’t have enough room!” and then she proceeds to extend the table.

Zaahir is a natural teacher. Between her, Professor Oswin, and Angelina running them ragged with Quidditch practices, Harry soon forgets what it’s like to slack off. It feels good, actually, to be so on top everything and finally understand the intricacies and delights of making a potion _work._

It’s not as much smooth-sailing for Ron. They have a reading session on the third Saturday in October—a copy of a chapter out of an old tome. It’s on vampires, this time, because Professor Oswin has set them an essay on the topic.

Ron remains silent throughout their discussion of the bats, which turn out to be familiars, not actual vampires themselves.

“So they’re not entirely magical,” says Hermione, “but they choose to—are you even paying attention, Ron? Honestly—”

Zaahir interrupts her with a raised hand. “I noticed you stopped reading early. What’s the matter?”

To nobody’s surprise—at least, not Harry’s, Ron goes red. He’d said to Harry last week that he finds Zaahir both intimidating and rather pretty, which Harry thinks perhaps goes to explain a lot of Ron’s previous hostility.

“I don’t—” Ron takes a deep breath. “Reading’s not really my thing. The words get all mixed up. You lot—you read much faster, so I gave up.”

For a second, Zaahir doesn’t even blink. Then she takes out her wand and taps the pages of Ron’s copy. “Tranquilízense,” she says quietly. “Iluminense a su relevancia.” Then she looks at Ron. “Is that better?”

He looks at the page, eyes scanning the words. From this angle, Harry can’t see any difference, but Ron looks up, stunned.

“How’d you do that?” he says, eyes wide.

“A great deal of magic is the intent,” Zaahir explains. “I told the words to calm down, and to light up depending on their relevance. Not everything works, mind you,” she puts her wand back into her sleeve, “but it’s a start.”

It seems Hermione has an epiphany, by the astonished look on her face. “Oh, Ron,” and she covers her mouth for a moment. “You’re dyslexic.”

Neville and Harry exchanged a questioning look. Harry vaguely remembers hearing the word before, possibly in relation to Dudley, but Neville seems entirely nonplussed.

“Is that bad?” Ron says, suddenly anxious.

“No,” Hermione says quickly. “No; it just explains a lot.”

After that, Ron seems to discover his own studious side. Zaahir baptises them “my little swots”, and much of the entire Gryffindor House’s surprise—minus Harry, Hermione, and Neville, Ron actually improves in several classes.

As per Zaahir’s suggestion, he writes down Snape’s instructions before he starts the potion, and Harry, thinking that’s a rather brilliant suggestion given how myopic he is, does the same. The improvement to the quality of their lives is so fantastic, Harry adds her to the list of people he ought do Christmas shopping for.

Quidditch season approaches rapidly. Despite the boost in confidence, Ron suffers immensely under snide remarks thrown his way whenever Slytherins are near, especially as rumours abound of them hexing Gryffindor players in the corridors. It’s so bad even Snape has to intervene.

“I’ll not have you shame our house this way,” Harry catches him saying to a group of third-years. “If you must practice your jinxes, we’ve now gained a very capable Defence teacher.”

That’s the most praise Harry has ever heard Snape bestow on any living creature—not that Professor Oswin does not deserve it. He’s as good, if not better, than Remus had been as a teacher, and he’s as excited as they are whenever they a master a spell.

November emerges frigidly from October's deluge. With the weather the way it is, December’s likely to be snowy white. The Great Hall’s ceiling turns grey with an almost glassy, possibly crystalline quality to it, and many of the amazed coos are not, in fact, from bedazzled first-years.

The morning of the Gryffindor-Slytherin match dawns frostily. A light mist has settled outside, but it’s cleared away when Harry drags Ron down for breakfast. They both need to be well-fed, even if Ron looks a bit green around the edges.

Ginny comes down arm in arm with Luna, which is bold considering Luna has an enormous lion as a headdress. It roars on command.

“Are you ready for this?” Ginny asks Ron. He gives her sort of a whimper, but then a firm _yes_ when she arches a brow.

If Harry could brew Felix Fortunatis—and he can, given Zaahir oversees it; the ingredients are just a horror to find and it would consume what little free time he has left, but if he _could_ have, Harry would’ve given it to Ron. As is, he’ll settle for a placebo, because Ron looks more and more miserable as the seconds tick by.

At a loss for what to do, Harry takes Ron along when they have to join the team. Zaahir intercepts them on the way out of the Hall; she casts one look at Ron and then grabs him by the shoulders.

“Listen,” she says gravely. “Whatever the idiots from my House may say, you have worked hard for this moment. Don’t let anyone take it from you. If you do, I will climb up Gryffindor tower and hunt you down. Yes?”

Colour returns to Ron’s face in stages. Zaahir is already gone from their sight when Ron looks alive again, which is good because Angelina does not give them much time to talk.

“All right, team,” she says, face serious, “this is our first test. Montague’s picked two new Beaters to replace Derrick and Boyle—some blokes by the name Crabbe and Goyle, don’t know much about them—”

“We do,” say Ron and Harry.

“Well, I think it’s a bit of a miracle they’ve managed to get on the broom. The point is, we’ve faced these Slytherins before. We’ve _beaten_ them. Let’s show them what it’s like to go against champions.”

They march out in a single file. Slytherin’s team waits for them on the pitch, brandishing both nasty smirks and golden badges Harry had only gotten a glimpse of at breakfast. To his utter surprise, Malfoy doesn’t wear one, thought Crabbe and Goyle do, and with pride, it seems.

“Captains, shake hands,” Madam Hooch calls.

Angelina steps forward. Montague seems to want to crush her fingers, but Angelina doesn’t so much as blink, to his complete disappointment.

They mount up and go at the sound of Hooch’s whistle, the game begun.

Harry flies up high; he looks for one thing and one thing only: a flash of gold. Malfoy isn’t far behind, but Harry doesn’t worry about that; Malfoy’s never beaten him to the snitch, even if he is an admittedly good Seeker.

The Slytherins sing. At first Harry doesn’t hear it; he listens to Lee Jordan’s commentary, lively and loud as it is, but then Lee stops to listen and—

 

Weasley cannot save a thing,  
He cannot block a single ring,

That’s why Slytherins all sing:  
Weasley is our King.

  
Weasley was born in a bin,   
He always lets the Quaffle in,   
Weasley will make sure we win,   
Weasley is our King.

 

“—and Angelina passes to Alicia,” Lee shouts over the song.

For a moment, Harry goes cold. His eyes flit over to Malfoy, who stares down at his fellow Slytherins in abject horror. Whatever change had overcome him in the last month—and he’s certainly been no nuisance to Harry, who can guess what had prompted Malfoy’s new behaviour, it seems not to agree with the rest of his House.

The Slytherin Keeper, Bletchley, stops Alicia and Angelina from scoring. He passes to Warrington, who bypasses Alicia and Angelina to go straight to Ron—

The song rises. Lee is shouting far more than is healthy for his voice—

Ron surges forward, slips, hangs from his broom by one arm and kicks the ball away. Harry is so relieved he feels faint.

“—And Weasley saves the day!” says Lee. “What a mighty play.”

Harry continues his circle of the pitch, heart racing. He sees a flash of the Snitch but does not follow; Malfoy falls for it, but Harry knows when to give chase—this is not it.

Neither team manages to score. By the time Harry catches sight of the Snitch and knows in his gut that this is his chance, the Slytherins have started to play dirty.

Harry dives.

The Snitch is near the foot of Gryffindor’s hoops, and jerks in a direction that means Malfoy is nearer. Harry turns violently and makes Malfoy dodge for it, which means Harry is now ahead. The Snitch shoots up and so does he, and now he’s so close he can reach for it.

Malfoy is neck to neck with him now, suddenly, and it’s like he scratches against the back of Harry’s hand, but when Harry accelerates—

His ribs _hurt_ . A bludger must have hit it, but it doesn’t _matter_ , because something hard and smooth tries to wriggle out of his fist.

“GRYFFINDOR WINS!” Lee shouts, triumphant. “Potter has the snitch!”

Harry crashes against the grass and rolls thrice before he’s on his back. He presses his eyes closed because all sorts of white spots threaten to take over his sight. In the distance, he hears Luna’s lion roar, and the Slytherins aren’t singing now; they’ve gone quiet, quiet, and Gryffindors shout, _Malfoy_ shouts—

“Harry. Harry!” Angelina touches his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“‘M fine,” Harry croaks out.

“Crabbe, what in the bloody hell were you _thinking,_ ” Malfoy seethes in the background. “You could’ve killed him! His skull could be cracked—”

“Malfoy calm the fuck down,” Zaahir’s voice comes from closer by. “I’ll help you tear Crabbe apart later, [pero callate o te callo.](-)”

Really, they shouldn’t worry about him; Harry’s had worse. At least Malfoy is now quiet, and the white spots in Harry’s eyes have gone, so he opens them in time to have Zaahir press against his ribs.

“Aauuw,” Harry shouts, and promptly closes his eyes again.

“Flail chest,” Zaahir says calmly. “I can see the paradoxical breathing. [Ayudale respirar](-) _._ ” At that, Harry finds breathing suddenly so much easier, and it makes him relax. Zaahir says, “Oh, Matron, you bless us with your presence!”

That must be Madam Pomfrey; Harry would recognise her scent of medicine everywhere. She has him swallow a potion, and since Harry trusts her blindly—he has to, with how much time he’s spent under her care, so he drinks.

There’s little after that.

***

He’s not surprised when he wakes in the hospital wing. It’s possible it’s Sunday morning, if he is to trust the light coming in between the curtains.

“Harry Potter, sir,” a voice squeaks next to his bed. It’s Winky.

Winky and Dobby, who is wearing far too many scarves and probably two hats, all of which Harry can identify as ‘made by Hermione’. It’s more than a bit disconcerting.

“Hey Winky,” Harry says. Or tries, anyway; his voice is raspy. Someone’s been good enough to leave some water on the nightstand, so he drinks that before he says, “Hey Dobby. Nice...clothes.”

“Thank you, Harry Potter, sir,” Dobby says, looking far more pleased than he should.

Winky perks up. “I be telling Mistress that Harry Potter is awake!” and she pops away.

Left with Dobby, Harry doesn’t know what to say. Dobby seems just fine standing there, smiling like he’s never been happier. Fortunately, Madam Pomfrey charges in as if it isn’t godsawful early on a Sunday morning, prods him and his ribs, and then gives him another potion to swallow.

“There you have it,” she tells him. “You’re lucky Miss Zaahir stabilised you before I got there. You’ll be the death of me, Mr Potter.”

She swishes away, with a nod towards Dobby. The elf presents Harry with breakfast—a tray big enough for at least five people. Suddenly famished, Harry eats nearly half of it before he feels like he’ll burst.

“So, Dobby,” he says as he eyes the orange juice. He can maybe find a place for that. “You’ve not, perchance, been collecting all of Hermione’s knitting?”

“I have, Mr Harry Potter,” Dobby says, “the other elves don’t like to go to Gryffindor Tower. I clean it all by myself, with help from Winky, sometimes.”

For an entire two seconds, Harry debates whether he should inform Hermione that her plan to free House Elves has backfired, but the conclusion he very quickly comes to is that she wouldn’t take it well—not from him.

Sometime later, he wakes up again to find Dobby gone and Ron sitting by his side. Hermione looks out the window. Judging by the frown on her face and the fresh new tray of food, she’s seen and spoken to Dobby, and it had not gone well for her.

“Hey, mate,” Ron says. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, “yeah.”

Hermione turns and tries for a smile. She succeeds at it too, but it’s better when she sits down and takes his hand in hers. “It’s good to see you awake.”

“You’ll have to forgive Zaahir her absence,” Ron says, “She’s on a warpath against her entire House. Absolutely mental, that one.”

“She was on the pitch,” Harry croaks. He takes the water when Ron offers it.

“Nobody really knows how she got there,” says Hermione. “She was just suddenly there. Now she’s formed a truce with Malfoy and has half of the Slytherins groveling.”

Harry can’t imagine that, except after a moment he can. She has the sort of tenacity to rule the world, and the title to back it up. Malfoy, though…

It’s as if Ron can read his mind. “I dunno, mate. Malfoy’s lost a few marbles, probably, but he offers his apologies—he apologised to me, personally, for the song. Said he had nothing to do with it, but it’s his House all the same.”

That just seems ridiculous and completely out of character, but then Harry does still vividly remember how much Zaahir has been pushing Malfoy to see his flaws. It had been entertaining. At least Malfoy’s actually _proving_ to be less of a git, and Harry can accept that in this increasingly surreal set of circumstances. For instance, he vaguely recalls Malfoy had been yelling at Crabbe or Goyle about cracking Harry’s head open.

“The world’s gone a bit mad,” Hermione says, “but Hagrid’s back now.”

If Harry had had a bit more control over his limbs, he would leap out of bed and run to Hagrid’s cabin. As it is, Hermione pushes the tray of food his way and watches sternly as he eats his fair share of lunch and gives them the rest when he can’t anymore.

They leave after that. Neville, Luna and Ginny come along just in time for Madam Pomfrey to discharge him. They help him into his coat and a warm new scarf, which is made in rather flashy pink, purple, and blue.

“It’s the bisexual pride flag,” Neville explains. “We know you’re not out yet, but we’re still baptising you.”

“Welcome, baby queer,” says Ginny in a voice that sounds far too similar to Zaahir.

It makes Harry feel incredibly warm, like when things fall neatly into place and all he has to do is accept that this is his new life. He hugs each of them and compliments Neville’s purple-white-grey-black scarf. It makes Neville go pink.

They drop him off just outside the great doors. Ginny says, “Ron and Hermione went ahead to Hagrid,” before she kisses his cheek and leaves with Luna and Neville.

With a deep breath of fresh air, Harry sets out to Hagrid’s cabin. It’s a good walk, one he hadn’t thought he’d need. The grounds are freshly snowed under, though some greenery still persists. Unlike the days before, the sky is clear blue.

Hagrid’s door opens as soon as he reaches it. Hermione’s face is grim, but Harry’s cheer doesn’t really die until he sees Hagrid.

“Is that...blood?” Harry asks. Hagrid’s hair is covered in it, though the source isn’t immediately visible. Hagrid is covered in cuts and bruises, and it takes a moment for Harry to find his injured eye; it’s a slit almost hidden away in between swollen skin.

“Yes,” Hermione hisses. “He won’t see Madam Pomfrey, so I sent for Salah instead.”

As if on cue, a knock comes from the door. Fang perks up but doesn’t bark or really move. Hermione goes to the door again since Harry is too stunned to do anything but gape at Hagrid like some gobsmacked fish. Ron looks miserable.

“Well, hello darlings,” says Zaahir. “Oh, good gods, man—what happened?”

And that’s how Harry can tell it’s all incredibly awful.

“ _Nuthin,_ ” says Hagrid. He looks as put out as he sounds. “Fancy a cuppa?”

“I’m sorry,” says Zaahir, calm. “Sir, I think you’ve been attacked. That’s not what I would call _nothing._ ”

“I’m fine,” Hagrid insists.

“You’ve got a three broken ribs, at least one infected cut, a terribly bruised eye, and you’re bleeding from somewhere under all that hair. You’re very much not fine.” Zaahir throws off her coat. “I’m not used to manhandling people, but I can and I will sit on you if I must.”

Hagrid looks at Hermione. “Where’d you pick this one up?”

“Spain,” Hermione snaps back.

“Andalusia, specifically,” Zaahir adds. She has her wand out. Hagrid yelps when she prods him. “Aha. You’re lucky your lung hadn’t collapsed.”

As she works her way through diagnosing all Hagrid’s pains and their sources, Hermione makes them tea. Harry doesn’t really know what to do with himself so he sits there and watches Hagrid wince. Zaahir mutters the entire time, but she patches up enough of Hagrid that he can move without possibly making things worse.

At some point, when she seems to be halfway done, she motions her hands as if she wants to choke Hagrid. “¡¿Cuántos gigantes enojaste?!”

“Wha’s tha’?”

“How many giants did you piss of, she asks,” Hermione clarifies.

“Who said—” Hagrid starts, “Who’ve you gone and talked to? I didn’t mention any Giants—”

“Come of it, man,” says Ron. “We’ve guessed.”

“It’s obvious,” says Harry, because not much can really hurt Hagrid unless it’s big, mean, and angry.

“I’ve seen Giants fight a dragon,” Zaahir says. “I felt sorry for neither.”

After a pause, when the others have no idea what to make of her, Ron says, “What is your life?”

“A circus act.”

“The point is,” Hermione says loudly, “we know. So either you tell us what’s happened, or we sit here till after curfew.”

Ron and Harry exchange dismayed looks; they’d miss dinner, and as much as they like and appreciate Hagrid, his cooking, especially his baking, leaves much to be desired.

“I’ve a date, Granger,” Zaahir says.

“Reschedule.”

“Nosy brats—aauw. Watch it.” He tries to glare at Zaahir, but her eyes spit more acid than his, and unfortunately for Hagrid she’s capable of staring down Severus Snape. Hagrid continues, “You kids know more’n you oughta.” His beard twitches.

Harry grins. “So, you went looking for Giants.”

“Yeah, a’ight.” Hagrid sighs. “Olympe and I went lookin’ for Giants.”

“Did you find them?” Hermione seems a bit too eager.

Zaahir gives her a deadpan look at the same time Hagrid says, “Well, yeh, not so difficult ter find, are they? Pretty big, see?”

“Granger, what did I just literally say about his injuries.”

“Oh hush,” Hermione says.

“So, where are they?” Ron asks.

“Mountains,” Hagrid and Zaahir say at the same time. They look at each other. Zaahir arches a brow, then continues her search for whatever has made Hagrid bleed into his bushy black hair.

“Come _on_ , Hagrid,” says Ron.

“If you tell us about your trip to the Giants,” says Harry, “I’ll tell you about how I almost got expelled.”

“Ye _what?_ ” Hagrid says, indignant.

“You first!”

After a moment’s consideration, Hagrid spills the story. He’d gone down to France with Madame Maxime under the pretense of a holiday. The Ministry had been watching Dumbledore even then, and two half-Giants aren’t exactly the most difficult to tail, so the two had gone up the mountains without magic.

They’d found the giants after a long trek, “Seventy or eighty of’em,” Hagrid says. “Used ter be more, used ter be diff’rent tribes, but wizards forced them away and all. They killed each other—not really meant ter live so close ter each other like tha’.”

They entered the camp in the morning, apparently, when the Giants could see them. They came bearing gifts for the Gurg—  

“I’m sorry, the _what?”_ says Harry.

“The chief,” Hagrid tells him. “Name o’ Karkus—biggest, ugliest, and laziest o’ them. First day, we gave’em a branch o’ Gubraithian fire.”

“I’m sorry,” says Harry, again, “You gave him—”

“Everlasting fire,” both Zaahir and Hermione say impatiently, the impatience mostly on Hermione’s end.

Dumbledore had made it, apparently, because it’s not something any wizard can do. Harry vaguely remembers Professor Flitwick discussing it, but he’ll have to look in one of the books later, when the matter of Giants is less pressing.

On the second day, Hagrid and Madame Maxime gave Karkus a goblin-made helmet. At least then the giants seemed to listen, or willing to, and all the signs had pointed the right way. And then it’d all gone wrong, because the Giants had gone and started a fight. Hagrid sighs.

Harry would feel sorry, except the new Gurg, by the name of Golgomath, had gone and had Hagrid beaten up and that is pretty much where his sympathy for the Giants ends. Of course some death eaters like Macnair had gotten to him first, but that doesn’t exactly raise Harry’s sympathies either.

They did find sympathetic Giants. Golgomath and Macnair got to those too.

“So,” says Ron, “so...there’ll be no Giants coming?”

“Nope,” says Hagrid. “But we did wha’ we had ter.”

The cabin falls silent, except for Fang’s whining. Harry pats him absently; snow falls outside the window. Zaahir, done with her inspection and healing of Hagrid, has crossed her arms. Unusually, she’s dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt a few sizes too big, not at all as fancy and well-fitted as her uniform.

“Hagrid,” Hermione asks carefully, “Did you find out anything about your mother?”

He turns to her, eyes dark. “Dead. Died years ago.”

“I’m sorry—”

“‘S fine,” Hagrid grumbles. “Barely knew ‘er.” Then he turns to Zaahir and says, “Thank ye, missy.”

“De nada,” she replies. “It’s always a pleasure to help.”

They drink their tea in silence, and before long the sun hangs low in the sky. They leave about then, and dinner’s waiting for them in the Great Hall. Zaahir disappears for her ‘date’ just before that.

Ron says, “I wonder who has the nerve to date her?”

“Not you,” Hermione says bitingly, and Harry excuses himself to sit at Ravenclaw table, where Luna welcomes him with a giddy smile, and Cho smiles widely as he assures everyone that he is, in fact, doing well today.

By Tuesday, Hagrid’s settled back into Hogwarts and doesn’t look like maybe he’s been mauled by something big and dangerous. Instead, Harry’s left to wonder what kind of big and dangerous thing they have to deal with in class, because Hagrid does not seem to want to follow Grubby-Plank’s well-laid out lesson plan.

“I’ve bin savin’ this trip inter the forest fer yer fifth year,” Hagrid tells them. “They prefer the dark, see?” He has a dead cow with them, and Harry’s money is so firmly set on ‘big and dangerous’ that what really waits for them comes out of the left field.

Hagird has to shriek twice before anything happens, and then it’s the fright of a lifetime, at least for Harry.

Blank, white eyes stare in from the twilight of the forest. After a moment, the horses emerge—those same eerie, black things, their bat-wings folded against their skeletal bodies. Hagrid throws the cow at the group of them, and they eat hungrily.

“Now put yer hands up,” says Hagrid, “who can see ‘em?”

Despite the proof that he is not, in fact, insane, it takes Harry more than a second to raise his hand. Neville goes first, and Harry sees Zaahir raise her hand—because _of course_ , she can.

“What are we seeing?” asks Parvati, “What’s eating that?”

“Thestrals,” says Hagrid, as if it’s so simple. “Hogwarts’ got a whole herd of ‘em.”

Hermione raises her hand. Hagrid nods to her, and she says. “The only people who are supposed to see them are those who have seen death.”

Several people stop moving entirely. Harry just figures several things make sense now, because Cedric, he had died right in front of him, had gone pale and lifeless just there, in mere seconds. His own mother had died too, had begged for it to be her instead of him, but that hadn’t made him able to see these creatures—thestrals. Something’s different about that memory.

Neville steps forward, goes to a thestral. It eyes him blankly, and Hagrid only says encouraging things, so Neville reaches out to the thestral’s mane and pets it.

“That’s it, says Hagrid, “They’re nice enough creatures, won’t hurt yeh.”

With some direction from Hagrid and help from those who can see them—which really, is only the three of them who had raised their hand, the other students can approach the few of the herd that had come at Hagrid’s call. Some others come and go; Harry even catches a glimpse of a little one.

At the end of the class, Harry walks back with Neville. They’ve both lapsed into silence after an hour of descriptions; Harry no longer feels like he’s gone mad and Neville, he thinks, has found another dose of courage. It’s good.

“It was my granddad,” Neville says as they reach the end of the forest. The white field ahead is blinding. “I saw my granddad die.”

“I’m sorry, Nev,” says Harry.

“It’s quite all right,” he says. After a pause, “I wonder who Salah saw.”

They see her walk ahead, but neither hurries. As curious as Harry is, some things aren’t meant to be forced out, and for once he’s glad no one’s asked him about Cedric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I KNOW the ace pride flag is v v v v recent but just let me have this ok? Let me have ace Neville. I have plans for him. Plans!


	9. The Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winter holidays start with blood. Such is the character of war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got two nice comments so I thought I'd post an early chapter o:
> 
> Additionally, I went back and added links/translations to the bits spoken in Spanish. It's something I'd overlooked in earlier postings, but definitely something I'd planned to do. Might as well start early.

December rolls around with snow to spare and a Christmas spirit that sneezes upon the entire castle, mostly the Great Hall. Harry has never seen so many tinsels, baubles and fir trees dressed to look like garish menaces, but here he is. And here they are.

Somehow, to the teaching staff, Christmas translates to “more homework”. This would be a lot less terrible if they’d not insisted and tight deadlines.

Good news comes in the form of the  _ Daily Prophet  _ article that announces Umbridge’s formal sentence—“ _ fifteen years for willful endangerment of minors, twenty for the use of a dark artifact.” _

“A little light,” Hermione remarks.

Ron shrugs. “She’s a Ministry official. Or was.”

“Well,” says Hermione, “It’s still thirty-five years of her life.”

Harry says nothing, because he’s not about to look a Christmas gift horse in the mouth. Umbridge is gone and stripped of her titles, and he’s off to Christmas with the Weasleys at the Burrow. He has half a mind to ask Mrs Weasley if Sirius can come along, but then that would have to be with Dumbledore’s permission…

He crosses paths with Cho once, whose friend Luna had named as Marietta. Marietta does not seem fond of Harry, and he can’t fathom what he’s possibly done to deserve her distaste, but then he’s the resident madman, these days.

“Oh, hi, Harry,” says Cho. She beams at him. “No, you go on,” she says to Marietta, “I won’t be long, promise.”

“Hey, Cho,” Harry says. None of the nerves jitter in him this time.

“I’d wondered,” she says, eyes downcast. “I’d just thought—would you like to go out, sometime? With me?”

Stunned, Harry doesn’t reply at once. She eyes his scarf—still the one Neville had gifted him, and for a moment Harry feels self-conscious. “Sure?”

“Oh,” she says, “not as a date, really. I’m not—I just can’t yet. But, I wanted to— talk.”

_ About Cedric, _ Harry guesses. He’s not opposed, per se; nobody presses the matter with him unless they want an outburst. Of all the people in the world, however, Harry thinks he can connect with Cho on this, because she deserves to know her boyfriend had been brave and good, and what had felled him was an insurmountable evil.

“Yeah,” he says brightly. “Hogsmeade? After break, I think; this season’s a bit too insane to plan anything nice.”

They exchange information for the purpose of sending letters, and Harry walks much lighter afterwards. It feels better than some silly crush on Cho; it feels like the beginning of something nicer, like friendship.

And it means he can consider other options. Hogwarts is home to many pretty people, up to and including one Draco Malfoy, who is indeed handsome bordering on  _ actually beautiful _ , but the last five years he has been...well, mean.  _Which is a mild statement._ Malfoy keeps to himself now, which is a relief.

Now that Harry looks, many girls and, indeed, many boys look at him with curious, roving eyes. What to do with that information is a mystery, but at least it means he has choices, and if one falls through…

He’s managed to be friends with Cho. It stands to reason he could at least befriend some others and see where it goes from there.

His mood keeps the entire day, right up until he’s in bed and wishing Ron and Neville goodnight. At first he is floating, soft; he sleeps on a cloud until it’s a cold floor.

He is smooth, powerful, flexible. Things around him shine when he looks at them, vibrant, vibrating. He glides along, careful, but he is alone—  

Not alone. A man sits over yonder, chin resting on his chest. Asleep,  _ asleep _ , so Harry must glide carefully and not  _ bite _ , because other more important things must be done first, and he’s got the time, he may bite later. For fun.

The man stirs. His scent is now alert, alert, and he has that little magic stick that could be dangerous, little though it could do against this smooth, fluid body.

Harry strikes, jaw wide, fangs bared. The flesh is supple, easily pierced. So much venom resides in the glands, ready to be used, and so much can be pumped into a man.

The scent is blood, now—iron, iron, and red. It’s on the man, it’s on the floor, pleasantly splattered about, but more pleasant is the way the man now struggles to breathe, to function—

“Harry.  _ Harry!” _

“I’m going to get help.”

His forehead could well burst open. Harry doesn’t dare open his eyes, but someone still shakes him. It’s Ron.

“Your dad,” Harry croaks. “He’s hurt.”

“It was just—”

“Not a dream,” Harry insists. “Scar.”

Ron freezes. It gives Harry a moment to adjust, to untangle from sheets that seem to want to capture him in a cocoon. Seamus and Dean whisper to each other in a corner, but Harry doesn’t care; he knows what he’s seen. That man had been Arthur Weasley.

_ I bit him, _ he thinks. Except he’d never been a snake before, and he doesn’t want to be one now, not after that.

Professor McGonagall storms in, hair loose and glasses askew. Her nightgown is pristine white, and she manages to look dignified despite the obvious haste and a very confused Neville who had brought her along.

Harry doesn’t even give her a chance to open his mouth. “It’s Mr Weasley,” he says, “Ron’s dad—at the Ministry? He’s bleeding out, and he’s been poisoned.”

Even taken aback, Professor McGonagall wastes no time. “Right. Potter, Weasley— get dressed. We must go to the headmaster.”

***

Possibly Dumbledore doesn’t sleep. Harry’s mind is still half on Fizzing Whizbee as the password to the headmaster’s office, and so at first he doesn’t see Dumbledore at all among the various interesting things one could get lost looking at in the office.

“Oh, Minerva,” says Dumbledore, “and..ah.”

The headmaster is wide awake, his blue eyes bright and alert. His dressing gown is impossibly purple and embroidered with gold, over a plain white shirt.

Professor McGonagall starts, “Mr Potter here has some terrible news—”

“Mr Weasley— Arthur Weasley, has been attacked,” Harry says, because it’s just a little frustrating how slow everyone decides to be right now. “There was a snake in the Ministry— _ I _ was the snake, and now Mr Weasley’s been bitten.”

“Is he terribly injured?” Dumbledore asks much more calmly than warranted. Ron looks a bit green, which Harry doesn’t fault him for.

“Of course he is,” Harry says impatiently. “It was an enormous snake.”

“Everard,” Dumbledore says, finally with some urgency. A painting of a sallow-faced Wizard comes to attention. “The man has red hair and glasses. Alarm the right people so they can find him. Dilys,” and a witch with silver ringlets opens her eyes, “you join him. Go now.”

They depart swiftly, much to Harry’s relief. He could sink down to the floor right about now, but his dignity keeps him upright. Minutes go by as the headmaster gathers things, writes a note, tests some instruments.

Quietly, so that they can barely hear him, Dumbledore speaks to Fawkes. “She needs to know.”

The phoenix goes in a flash of fire.

“What about the rest of the Weasley children, Albus?” says Professor McGonagall.

The wizard Everard returns just then and takes Dumbledore’s attention. “I called until they came. They’ve carried him off, so Dilys—” the witch appears as if on cue.

She says, “They’ve brought him to St Mungo’s. A lot of blood; it doesn’t look good.”

“Minerva,” Professor Dumbledore says quietly, “wake the other children.”

Harry wants to reach out to Ron, but he can’t. It could be unwelcome; after all, Harry had gone and blabbed that he’d just bitten Ron’s father.

“What about mum?” says Ron. “Who will tell her—the clock.”

It’s like a knife has found its way between Harry’s ribs. The clock—the hand with Mr Weasley’s picture must now be at ‘mortal peril’, but Mrs Weasley could not be awake at this hour. And all Harry can think of is that boggart, switching, switching, switching with every  _ Riddikulus _ .

Dumbledore does something to a silver instrument, something that summons snakes. It’s gone before Harry can understand it, but it doesn’t matter; Dumbledore looks at Ron now, eyes grim.

“Fawkes will alert your mother as soon as he can, young Mr Weasley,” says the headmaster. He picks up a blackened kettle, murmurs ‘ _ Portus’. _ Then he turns to a portrait and calls, “Phineas. Phineas!”

It takes several shouts from the other portrait before one Phineas Black reacts at all, a theatrical jerk his choice of awakening. Harry thinks him familiar, not in the least because there can’t be that many Blacks around.

“You are to tell Sirius,” says Dumbledore, and Harry can finally place the voice of the portrait as the one from a supposedly empty portrait, “that Arthur Weasley has been mortally injured. He is to expect Arthur's wife, children and his Godson to arrive at his house shortly.”

“Yes, yes, very well.” Gone, too, is Phineas Black.

Professor McGonagall arrives with Fred, George and Ginny, who look far too asleep still. Ginny sees Ron and goes to hug him immediately; apparently Professor McGonagall had not shied from telling them what had occurred.

A flash in the very middle of the office does the job of waking them all up at once.

“That is Fawkes,” says Dumbledore. “Molly Weasley has been alerted. Come now. Your father has been taken to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. This portkey,” he points to the kettle, “will send you to Grimmauld Place. It’s easier from there to the hospital. Now we wait for Phineas—”

“Sirius says he’d be delighted,” comes a bored voice from above. “A weird one, that great-great-grandson of mine.”

“Come, then,” says Dumbledore. “On my count. One, two—”

In the fraction of the second before the next count, Harry looks up at the headmaster. Dumbledore turns to him, and the scar lights up like a beacon of pain, like it can split Harry’s head in two. In that same fraction, a hatred so deep and absolute surges inside Harry that he could well bite, strike,  _ bite _ —  

“Three.”

The jerk comes from behind his navel, and a maddening whirl later, his feet hit the ground so hard his shin possibly fractures. As Harry can still stand, he supposes that’s not the case, but  _ surely _ there are more pleasant ways to travel.

“Is it true their father’s  _ dying _ —” comes a gleeful voice Harry recognises immediately.

“QUIET!” Sirius roars at his mother’s portrait.

They’re in the basement kitchen, where the gloom for once fits the occasion. Sirius comes down to greet them, a whiff of alcohol clinging to him like a light blanket. He is unshaven, but his hair is a bit neater than usual. 

“Well, there you are.” He sighs. “What's happened to your father, exactly?” 

They turn as one to Harry, who then has the dubious honour of telling the tale. They listen intently as he tries to twist his tongue around his guilt and—

“I'm really sorry,” he ends the retelling. “I didn't mean to hurt him; I was just—”

“Don’t be stupid, Harry,” says Ginny.

“Yes, that,” says Ron, a smidge of irritation making it through. “You may have dreamt you were a snake, but if you hadn’t, my dad would be dead right now.”

Fred and George nod along. Sirius claps his back, and it's like everything’s well for a moment. 

“We have to get to St. Mungo’s,” says George. 

“No,” says Sirius. “You wait here for your mother. She’s to be notified first.”

“We can't just sit here!” says Ginny. 

Fred adds, “That's our father over there. We have to go.” 

“And how do you suppose you'll explain knowing about him being injured?” Sirius raises his chin. The Weasleys fall silent. “Will you say Harry told you?”

“As if the Ministry needs to be more suspicious of him,” Ron mutters. 

“Exactly,” says Sirius. “So you will stay put until your mother arrives, or I will tie you up until further notice.” 

Fred and George look mutinous, but Ginny takes seat at the kitchen table. Ron follows her lead, and Harry figures he might as well do as they do. Sirius brings them butterbeer, and so they enter an hour of sitting around glumly.

Sirius, for his part, doesn’t try to cheer them up; the situation’s too dire, and they’re all anxious for news. It comes in the form a flash and a short missive.

_ “Dad’s all right,” _ Fred reads, as George looks over his shoulder.  _ “He’s still alive. I’m going to St. Mungo’s. Stay with Sirius. I will come as soon as I can. Mum.” _

“That’s good, right?” Ginny asks no one in particular.

The night seems to stretch on forever. Ron dozes off with his head on the table, the twins fight against sleep and doze off in turns. Ginny stares unblinking into the fire, and Harry tries his best not to move, not to draw attention to himself. They may not blame him for their father’s plight, but Harry can’t shake the feeling that something evil lurks within him, something that wants to  _ hurt _ and  _ maim… _

Sometime past five—Harry can’t see well anymore, and Ron’s wristwatch is half-turned away, but past five, Mrs Weasley comes into the kitchen. In any other situation, it would be comical how her children turn to her all at once. Their mother is pale, face pinched, but she offers a wan smile.

“He’s stable,” she tells them. “He’ll be all right. Bill’s with him for now. We can all visit later, when the sun’s up proper.”

Tension seeps out of the cracks in the room. The Weasley children all hug their mother, and then she comes to hug Harry, who’d not been expecting this sort of thing at all, actually.

“Thank you, Harry,” she whispers to him. “If not for you, they may not have found him for hours.” She then thanks Sirius for looking after them, and Sirius seems to take gratitude much more gracefully than Harry can at the moment.

“You can stay here till they discharge Arthur,” Sirius reassures her. “Even through Christmas, really. It would be my pleasure.”

Mrs Weasley thanks him profusely. She sags into a chair, face tired and drawn. Sirius calls for Kreacher but the elf doesn’t show. A moment later, Dobby pops in with Winky; apparently Dumbledore had sent them this way.

“Thought you only had a Mistress,” Ron mutters at Winky.

“Mistress Salah is being fast asleep,” Winky says. “Mistress won’t mind. She is telling Winky to help whenever Winky is being capable.”

“So she does sleep!” says Fred. “Amazing.”

Winky is less impressed, but she leaves off a reply to help Dobby make them a feast of a breakfast. They don’t even let Mrs Weasley help, so Ginny takes it upon herself to distract her mother with the timely revelation that she’s dating Luna Lovegood.

It has the desired effect. “Well, it’s not that I’m shocked, Ginny, dear—”

“I am,” Ron announces. He’s gone red, which has never looked good on him.

Mrs Weasley glares at him but continues, “I just wish you’d told me sooner so that I could have invited her over for Christmas. Now I don’t know if I’ve time to knit a—”

“It’s fine, mum,” Ginny says, now clearly regretting the decision. “I just thought I should  _ tell  _ you, in case anything—” she stops there and looks at her hands.

Silence descends upon them like a blanket, into which Sirius suddenly says, “but Xenophilius’ daughter, really? I hope she’s nothing like her father.”

“She is, rather,” Harry informs him.

“It’s very cute,” Ginny says, resolute. “I’ll have no one speak ill of Luna.” She sends a pointed glare at Ron, who manages a deeper shade of red.

“I thought you had a crush on Harry?” Apparently Ron wishes to dig himself deeper, and Harry is there to watch him do it. He’s already composing a letter to Hermione in his head, to tell her of Ron’s passing.

Ginny rolls her eyes. “Come off it. Harry’s a handsome bloke but a girl’s got to move on when there’s no hope.”

Ron gapes at her, then turns to Harry, who shrugs. He appreciates that Ginny still thinks him handsome, but it’s not like she was ever going to be more than just Ginny to him, and besides that, she’s a really good friend.

Breakfast is still steaming when the elves serve it, so Ron decides to busy himself with that over worrying about his sister’s choice of dates.

They’re sent off to bed, after that. Harry does his utmost best to stay awake; he’s not about to let himself become a snake again, not even in his own head. It takes several tries and he does doze off three times, but eventually he finds a position with his back against the cold metal bars of the bed, and he stays put until Ron wakes again.

Tonks and Moody join them for lunch. They’re to escort their group to St. Mungo’s, which doesn’t do much to assuage Harry’s anxieties. Both the tube and the streets are packed with Christmas shoppers.  _ ‘Tis the season. _

Their group stops in front of Purge & Dowse Ltd., a red-bricked department stored CLOSED FOR REFURBISHMENT, as the large signs on the doors are eager to tell them.

A dummy stares down at them, the eyelashes almost falling off. It models a green nylon pinafore that is too ugly for the eyes. Moody gathers them all, then Tonks leans in to the  dummy.

“Wotcher. We’re here to see Arthur Weasley,” she says.

At this point, Harry should be used to all the strange, impossible, eerie things that make up the Wizarding world, and yet he cannot help but gape as the dummy nods, beckons with it jointed finger, nor can he keep in his surprised yelp when Tonks and the twins disappear through the glass. Ron and Ginny follow thereafter, and then Moody pushes him through the—

—reception area that is absolutely crowded with people. Patients with various disfigurements sit about, some even making weird noises that Harry can’t even begin to classify. Some read  _ Witch Weekly _ , some read  _ The Daily Prophet _ . One particular witch has to fan herself as she periodically whistles as if she were a hot kettle.

Witches and wizards walk about in lime-green robes. “Healers,” Ron tells Harry as he observes on writing notes on a clipboard.

“Over here!” Mrs Weasley calls to them.

A large portrait of a woman with silver ringlets greets them down the wall.  _ Dilys Derwent _ , it reads,  _ St. Mungo’s Healer (1722-1741), Headmistress of Hogwarts (1741-1768). _ She counts the Weasleys as they walk past. Just as she exits her portrait, she winks at Harry and then vanishes.

The bored witch at the reception tells them to head to Dai Llewellyn ward, first floor. They have to climb one set of stairs for that before they are greeted with “DANGEROUS” DAI LLEWELLYN WARD: SERIOUS BITES.

Tonks stops there. “We’ll wait outside, Moly. Family goes first.”

Harry hangs back with Moody, but Mrs Weasley pushes him forward through the door. “Don’t be silly. Arthur wants to see you, too.”

The small ward has but one window. The rest of the light comes from the crystal bubbles up high in the ceiling, clustered together like some makeshift chandelier. The ward has all of three patients, with one Arthur Weasley at the other end of the room, propped up against a mound of pillows.

“Hello!” he says, and sets aside the  _ Daily Prophet _ in his hands. He’s pale but otherwise looks well, and his hair is a bit messy.

Mrs Weasley leans in to kiss his cheek. “How are you, dear?”

“Fine! Bill just left.” mr Weasley spreads his one good arm to hug Ginny. “If only they could hurry up and clear these bandages—blasted gashes keep bleeding whenever they do, though.” He looks at Harry now. “I must thank you, Harry. You’ve saved my life.”

For a moment, just a moment, Harry allows himself the guilt despite Ron, despite Ginny, despite the twins. “I’m just glad you’re alive, Mr Weasley.”

Ginny kicks him. She seems to have become clairaudient with the amount of time she spends with Luna, or else Harry really is that easy to read. Still, it heartens him that someone cares that much.

“So, what were you doing at the Ministry, dad?” Fred tries casually.

“That’s my business,” says Mr Weasley. “Now, I read here…”

He goes on about some bloke who had been responsible for regurgitating toilets, whatever those are, and despite the twins’ best attempt to needle information out of him, it results in them all being pushed out of the ward. Harry is glad for it; he doesn’t really want to know what Voldemort of his snake Nagini are after, not if it costs people their lives.

Well, he  _ does _ want to know. Just not like this.

Moody and Tonks go in next. George has somehow brought along Extendable Ears. Harry takes them; if they won’t tell him anything directly, this is the only way he can keep himself informed.

He regrets it intensely.

“...maybe Voldemort is possessing the boy…”

Harry yanks out the Ears.


	10. The Yuletide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And Christmas comes at last, laden with gifts both happy and sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had planned to post yesterday but forgot haha

The words never leave his mind.  _ Voldemort is possessing the boy... _

By dinnertime Harry hasn’t seen anyone for hours. He’s contemplated sneaking back to Hogwarts, except Phineas Black comes with a message from Dumbledore, whose orders are to  _ stay there. _

Harry’s had enough of being told what to do and whom to listen to, but he has no choice but to stay. At Hogwarts he could well be a danger to the students and faculty; at Grimmauld Place he could possibly maim his friends.  _ Rock, hard place. _

It’s not that he’s not hungry, per se. Harry hides away with Buckbeak in the Hippogriff’s assigned room, tossing the creature dead rats. It’s quiet, at least, and no one has bothered him since Ron had told him about dinner.

So of course Hermione finds him there, comes knocking at the door until he opens it. Ginny waits with her, and they don’t shy away from trapping themselves with him and Buckbeak. And of course Hermione knows everything now, because it’s not like Ron or anyone can shut up and keep things to themselves.

“Why are you  _ here?” _ says Harry. Last he’d seen of her, she’d been off to go skiing with her parents, and she’d seemed rather eager to.

“Well, I’ve wanted to talk to you,” says Ginny. “If there’s anyone here who knows what it’s like to have Voldemort possess them, it would be me.”

Harry goes still. He feels absolutely numb as the impact of the words reach the core of him. “Ginny, I—”

“Forgot, yes,” Ginny says coolly. “How fortunate.”

“And I’m here because I’ve heard you’re being stubborn,” says Hermione. “Ginny and I have decided that if you’re to be acting silly, we’ll simply sit it out with you.”

“Beat,” says Ginny, “I said I’d beat it out of him.”

“Yes, well,” says Hermione, “Have at it, then.”

Ginny pokes at his chest. “Have you lost any time? Are there blank spaces in your memory?”

It takes Harry a moment to answer. “No.”

“Then I am pleased to inform you that the He-Devil has never possessed you.”

And that’s that. They drag Harry down for dinner, where he joins the rest of them with relief coming out of his every pore. Sirius beams a smile at him, rubs his hair, even lays off any alcohol for the evening.

Harry could make a home of this, for Sirius. It would be better than Privet Drive, even if Sirius still seems to see Harry and think of James, but it would be  _ better _ than being the parentless freak, barely tolerated. The house is cleaner now, and some parts of it are alight with both Christmas cheer and nice new lamps.

Christmas morning sneaks up on Harry and opens with a pile of presents at the foot of his bed. Ron’s already up and about, surrounded with wrapping paper. Harry had given him a book on flying techniques, which Ron is in the process of spelling into obedience, and a Broom Compass. He beams a smile at Harry.

“Good haul this year!” says Ron.

Hermione joins them a little later, apparently already having gone through her gifts. She brings Ron a book and several pamphlets on Dyslexia. “I asked my parents for some help,” she explains. “A friend of a friend has a daughter with Dyslexia, so I thought, it might just be nice to—”

Ron pulls her into a hug. “This is brilliant! There’s nothing on it in magical libraries…”

To Harry she actually gifts a book on  _ Useful Herbs and their Benefits for Potions, _ an old thing she’s copied from an undisclosed source. As secretive as she is about the origins, as happy is Harry to receive it; he  _ likes _ potions now that he knows what it’s all about.

“Books, so many books,” Ron sings. He has, in fact, bought Hermione a book on knitting, the magical kind. He’s added patterns to the haul just for fun, and Hermione glows in happiness when she mentions opening the gift.

“I didn’t think I’d like it so much as a hobby,” says Hermione. “It seems very matronly, but it’s actually rather nice.” She turns to Harry. “Thank you for  _ New Theory of Numerology. _ I’ve wanted that for  _ ages. _ ”

Sirius and Remus have gone and decided to jointly gift Harry  _ Practical Defensive Magic and Its Use Against the Dark Arts; _ it has wonderful and detailed illustrations of the counterjinxes and hexes presented.

Zaahir’s gifts arrive via Winky, who is uncharacteristically dressed in a pointy red hat with a bell, and green shoes. She looks like a Christmas elf straight out of a muggle film and seems delighted when Harry points it out.

“Mistress detests it,” she exclaims. “She is saying the colours are terrible, but she is liking the bell.” Whyever that would make Winky so happy is a mystery.

Harry accepts the gifts with a polite thank you, and gives Winky his gift for Zaahir in return. It had taken him an age and a half to come up with something, mostly because it turns out he knows too little about Zaahir to figure out what she’d want, let alone what she’d ever need. She’s a Marchioness, after all.

She’s also an avid potion-brewer. She’ll appreciate Hedwig’s freely given white feather.

He opens his gift to find a fountain pen, as gilded and ornate as the one he’d seen her write with. To Ron she’d sent a self-correcting quill with a golden tip, which Ron immediately blurts out costs more than all of his belongings. Hermione receives a letter, which seems bland until she reveals it’s a family tree of Hogwarts House Elves, all leading back to the elves of Inverness. A second page turns out to be a contract.

“Except, it’s  _ not _ a contract,” says Hermione. “It’s a copy of an agreement to protect the elves from further extinction, after dark forces destroyed their home.”

“How’d she get her hands on  _ that? _ ” says Ron.

Hermione holds the letter sideways. “It says here there’s a Come and Go Room at Hogwarts. Dobby had shown her there. She’s written instructions…”

As Hermione tries to figure it out, an owl comes in. It’s addressed to all three of them and written in a neat script. It’s from  _ Malfoy. _

They stare at it for quite a while. Harry ends up reading it out loud because Ron thinks it’s cursed and Hermione won’t let go of Zaahir’s letter.

_ Dear Potter, Weasley, and Granger, _

_ Normally, I would do this sort of thing in person, but as two out of three of you have devised an early departure from Hogwarts, a letter will have to do. _

_ For the last five years, I have been horrible to you. My prejudices led me to believe myself superior, and so I lashed out whenever that security was threatened. I have since seen the error of my ways. Thus, I extend my sincere apologies to all three of you, if you’ll accept them. I understand, of course, if you do not. _

_ My mother and I wish you happy holidays, _

_ Yours Truly, _

_ Draco Lucius Malfoy & Narcissa Titania Malfoy-Black _

For all the the letter is not cursed, it might as well have come with a Silencing Charm. The trio stare at each other for a long moment before Ron breaks it.

“So how much torture do you imagine…” Hermione stops him with a glare.

“People can change,” she says. “Obviously Malfoy’s chosen to grow up. We should respond in kind.”

Given that she knows more of the etiquette involved in writing formal letters, they leave her to it. As she writes, Fred and George appear with a loud  _ crack. _ They don’t seem happy to be there.

“Merry Christmas,” says George. “Don’t go downstairs just yet.”

“Mum’s crying,” Fred elaborates. “Percy’s sent his jumper back. No note.”

“Not even to ask how dad is doing,” George continues. “Now we did try to cheer her—”

“—didn’t work,” says Fred. “Lupin’s gotten the task now.”

“Percy’s such a pillock,” Ron says.

Eventually they tiptoe downstairs and find a host of people wishing them a merry Christmas. Mrs Weasley’s eyes are still red, but she makes them a delightful bruncheon all the same. Sirius and Remus come down at the same time; Sirius looks far too pleased with himself, and Remus looks like he’s relaxed for the first time in his life. Hermione’s eyebrows shoot up, and she exchanges a look with the twins.

Harry thinks back on the joint gift the pair had given him and decides this is the best Christmas for everyone.

In the afternoon, they go to St. Mungo’s once more. Mr Weasley gets an earful for trying Muggle stitching on his wounds, not that it had helped at all.

It so transpires that they end up in the ward for Spell Damage. Harry had gone looking for tea, and the rest of the Weasley children and one curious Hermione had come along with him. They manage to dodge Lockhart thanks to Ginny veering them away from his sight, but when they peer around the corner, they see—  

“Nev!” Ginny calls to him. Neville trails glumly behind his grandmother, an imperious woman of imposing height and a face that says she is not to be trifled with.

They greet the duo just outside the ward. “Ah,” says Mrs Longbottom, “You must be the Weasley children. Ginevra, I believe,” she says to Ginny. “And I see here you’ve the Potter boy with you, and Miss Granger, of course. Kind of you to help out my grandson with his homework. I do miss a certain Spanish Marchioness.”

“She’s not with us,” says Hermione, somehow quickly recovered from the idea that Mrs Longbottom knows her at all.

“She’s spending time in Hogsmeade,” Neville says softly.

“I see.” Mrs Longbottom looks them over again. “Well, it was a pleasure seeing you all. We’re just done with our visit—yes, Alice, dear, what is it?”

A woman had walked from a bed in the far corner. Harry recognises her from the photo Moody had shown him over the summer—Alice Longbottom, Neville’s mother. She’s not as round-faced as she’d been then, nor is her hair as neat. It’s dull brown, like her eyes, but at least her focus is on Neville.

She gives Neville some wrapping paper, which he accepts diligently. Once she’s far enough away, Mrs Longbottom says, “Throw that away now, Neville. She’s given you enough rubbish to decorate your room with.”

But as they say their goodbyes and leave, Harry sees Neville pocket the piece of paper. He gives a little wave goodbye.

“Was that Neville’s mother?” Ron asks, perhaps a tad too loud.

“I didn’t know,” Ginny says miserably. “I’d always wondered—Nev doesn’t really talk about them, so I’d imagined they were dead but…”

None of them had known except for Harry, who would have taken this bit of information with him to the grave. “Dumbledore told me,” he explains when they look at him. “It’s what got Bellatrix Lestrange thrown into Azkaban.


	11. The Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry must learn to defend himself in many ways. His mind, especially, is vulnerable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter for this week!

New year races by like a colourful storm. Harry’s not quite ready to go back to Hogwarts for the second half of term, not if it means he has to leave Sirius alone with Kreacher. The elf lurks about and stares at Harry whenever an opportune moment presents itself, and sometimes Harry doesn’t know what to make of it.

The day before they’re to return, Harry finds himself playing wizarding chess with Ron. Luna has been invited over and reads the  _ Quibbler _ whilst Ginny does Luna’s nails. Hermione knits, occasionally looking over to Ron and Harry as Ron resolutely wins every game.

Mrs Weasley appears at the door. “Harry dear—Professor Oswin would like to see you. He’s downstairs with Professor Snape.”

At the mention of Snape, Harry turns his head so fast he nearly gets whiplashed. Mrs Weasley looks expectantly down at him.

“I’m sorry, who?” says Harry.

“Professor Oswin, dear,” she repeats patiently. “He’d like to speak with you.”

His friends offer no answers when he looks over to them, so Harry supposes he has to go and find out why his Defence teacher has come to see him. Harry hadn’t even known Oswin is part of the Order—must be, at least, if he’s at the headquarters.

In the kitchen, Professor Oswin greets him cheerfully. “Potter! Good to see you. I suppose you’ve had a good holiday?”

“Yes, sir,” says Harry. His eyes swerve to Professor Snape, who looks at him blankly with eyes as black as his hair.

Sirius comes down to the kitchen just then, hastily buttoning his shirt. Professor Oswin grins widely, but says nothing even as Sirius turns a bright shade of red. Snape rolls his eyes.

He says, “I believe we asked to speak to Potter in private.”

“I’m his godfather,” Sirius says.

“Then let’s cut to the chase,” says Professor Oswin before the other two men can start a row. “Professor Dumbledore has asked Severus to teach Harry Occlumency...”

“I beg your pardon,” Sirius interrupts. “Absolutely not.”

“Well, he wasn’t finished, was he, Black,” Snape says acridly.

Professor Oswin takes a deep, breath, and looks between the two adults. “I was indeed not finished. Now if you’re both quite done being children?” Both Sirius and Snape say nothing, so Professor Oswin continues, “Occlumency. It requires trust between teacher and student,” here, Harry snorts, which gets him a  _ look _ , “yes, I understand that’s a bit of a problem, so I’ve suggested to Severus that I take over the lessons.”

Sirius frowns. “Does Dumbledore know this?”

“I mentioned it,” says Professor Oswin, “he said Severus should not have any trouble teaching Harry, which is where we disagree with him.”

“So, you’re doing this without his knowledge?” Sirius looks dubious.

Snape looks at him as if he were a petulant child. “As much as I’d like to follow the headmaster’s command, I also believe in accurate, pain-free education. Professor Oswin has a formal mastery in Mind Magic, whereas I do not. He also benefits from a lack of...history, where Potters are concerned.”

“What,” says Harry, “exactly, is this...Occlu-thing.”

“Mind Magic,” Professor Oswin explains. “It’s two-fold, and has recently been divided in Legilimency and Occlumency. Mind Magic is a form of defense for the mind, so that one’s thoughts are not easily penetrated. Or well, in the case of Legilimency, one attempts to read someone’s mind.”

Harry nods slowly. If they’re to teach him this then...they must think he’s in danger, or that he himself poses a risk to everyone’s safety.

“To be quite honest,” Professor Oswin continues, “I’m a lot concerned that Mind Magic has fallen so out of use.”

“I learnt it,” says Sirius. “Most noble families put their children through it.”

Harry perks up. “Why can’t you teach me? No offense, professor.”

Sirius winces. “No, I think—the methods my dear mother used to teach us Occlumency were terrible, and I shan’t be replicating that with you.”

“Right,” says Professor Oswin. “So, to keep up appearances, Severus has offered his office for the lessons. He’ll also be joining us,” he turns to Snape, who nods, “so that he can give his reports to Dumbledore. That is, if you don’t mind, Harry.”

“Don’t have much of a choice, do I?” says Harry.

“Unfortunately not,” Snape says.

Sirius glares at him, and for a solid moment Harry prepares himself to intervene, to step in between these two adults and stop them from potentially pummeling each other to the death—

Mr Weasley bursts in. “I’m healed! Fully healed!”

Harry certainly wishes he had taken this in with Professor Oswin’s serene appraisal, but instead he startles so bad he jumps out of his chair, wand out. Snape looks positively annoyed, and Sirius has quite possibly had a small heart attack.

“Spiffing, old chap,” says Sirius, in what is probably the most posh accent Harry has ever heard from anyone in his life. The Dursleys couldn’t dream of achieving such a thing, not in centuries.

The entire Weasley family, minus Ginny and Ron, come in. Harry sits back down and pretends to never have been startled out of his chair in the first place, though he keeps his wand in the table.

“Will you stay for tea, Harold?” Mrs Weasley asks Professor Oswin.

“Oh, I can’t see why not.”

Supper is a cheerful affair now that Mr Weasley is out of the hospital. Professor Oswin, it turns out, has been with the Order for a couple of years, mostly serving as backup as he travels the world. Something silvery-white shines on his ring finger, which Mrs Weasley notices almost immediately.

“Oh, you never said you were married!” she exclaims. Harry feels a pang of envy which he stomps down.

Professor Oswin sighs. “It’s not something we advertise, that.” He sips at his tea. “Dangerous work courts dangerous enemies.”

The ring swiftly disappears after that, which is a shame, because Harry had wanted to look closer at it, to ask more about the professor’s spouse—are they part of the order too? Do they have children? Oswin seems to be at least in his late thirties, but aside from the slip with the ring, there’s not much else to reveal his life.

“I’d just come back from Wales when I got the job offer from Dumbledore,” he tells Harry a bit later. “I hadn’t even unpacked, and I was thinking of seeing Seoul.”

The evening passes like that, in harmony. For a moment, Harry even feels like these are proper holidays. Sirius seems to forget entirely about Snape—Harry even thinks he might be a bit drunk on Professor Oswin’s tales of Peru, of Cuba and Colombia. 

Just before Harry goes to bed, Sirius beckons Harry into the parlour. “If that  _ Snivellus _ gives you any trouble, any at all, you tell me, all right?”

Harry snorts. “He hasn’t given me much trouble since I discovered the joys of potion-making.”

It makes Sirius scrounge up his nose. “You’re becoming more and more like your mother, really.”

For a moment, Harry isn’t sure what to make of that. “Did she like potions?”

“Yeah,” says Sirius, a wistful look in his eye. “She was good at it, too. Slughorn—our old professor in the day, bit of a fool if you ask me, but well, he liked her a lot for it. She was talented, your mum. Worked hard to get her way.”

Suddenly unable to speak, Harry hugs Sirius. It’s the first time anyone’s told him anything substantive about his mother—something other than that he has her eyes, or that she’d died to protect him. She’d been  _ human _ , too, more than just a collection of pictures of red hair and kind eyes.

_ And we’re both good at potions, _ Harry thinks, even if his talent with potions is a recent discovery. It’s one connection he will cherish.  _  I’ll make you proud, mum. _

In the morning, they return to Hogwarts by way of the Knight Bus. Sirius gives him a pocket-book sized package before the group departs, escorted once more by Tonks and Remus. Ron is excited for his first ride on the bus for an entire two minutes before he regrets it entirely.

They arrive at Hogsmeade mid-morning, and by way of rolling out of the bus and unto the snow. Tonks and Remus help them with their luggage.

“Look after yourselves, all right?” says Remus. He gives Harry a firm pat, but Harry feels more like a hug, so he pulls Remus into one.

“You look after yourselves, too,” he murmurs. Then he lets go, and he sees Remus has gone a bit pink around his cheeks.

 

***

For all that Snape had seemed to despise Harry before, he now makes a point of not bothering with him at all. In fact, his energies now go towards pulling the class into higher form, and since Harry can make perfect brews now, he’s the least of Snape’s ongoing problems.

“Miss Brown,” Snape entones heavily during the Monday class, “if you put that root in the potion, I will hold you personally responsible for the resulting explosion.”

Lavender stops in her tracks, where she had, in fact, been about to throw the sliced beetroot into the potion. Harry, who had just finished smashing the same root down into a puree, looks at her, alarmed.

As Snape tears her a new one for the oversight, Harry has his own private heart attack about the impending doom they had just missed. He checks his ingredients, casts a shield charm, and pours the sludge into the cauldron. The potion fizzles, but nothing dramatic happens.

“If you dunderheads must be incompetent, at least follow Mr Potter’s lead and cast a shield charm. I have it on good authority that you’ve all been introduced to it.”

Harry takes a second to gape at Snape.  _ Was that a compliment? _ Surely it’s the closest Snape had ever come to dishing one out to  _ Harry, _ and he is going to secretly enjoy the privilege for as long as Snape doesn’t ruin it.

After lunch, Harry very nearly crashes into Cho. She’s without Marietta this time, which Harry finds to be a relief; whatever problem Marietta has with him, she can keep it to herself.

“Hey, Harry,” says Cho. “Nice to see you again. Thanks for the card!”

Not knowing what to send to her over Christmas, he’d gotten the prettiest card and sent it. They’d exchanged one other letter after his arrival back at Hogwarts, but they hadn’t seen each other since before the incident with Mr Weasley.

“Hi, Cho,” he says. “Nice holidays?”

Hermione nodges Ron and drags him along outside of the Great Hall. Harry would mind less if she’d made it seem less significant; it’s not like he intends to date Cho.

“Yeah,” Cho responds. “We went to Hong Kong to see my grandparents. It was beautiful.” She smiles widely enough that she dimples, and it looks adorable on her. “Have you seen the dates for the next Hogsmeade visit?”

“I haven’t looked at the boards, really,” he says. “Too much homework.”

“Ah, right, fifth year,” she looks at him sympathetically. “They fall on Valentine’s Day, which is…”

“Too suggestive,” says Harry. Cho nods. “Well, we can go then, but we can also stay in whilst everyone is out? Or choose a later date.”

“Staying in sounds nice, actually,” she says. “There’s a nice place by the lake…”

It feels good, setting a date like that. Cho is gorgeous when she’s happy, and as much as Harry dreads speaking of Cedric, the maze, and everything after, perhaps he  _ should _ . Both he and Cho deserve closure.

At six o’clock, he arrives outside Snape’s office door. He hears the murmur of voices but cannot make out the words, so he knocks. Professor Oswin answers the door and closes it again once Harry is inside.

It’s a room fool of shadows. Jars line the shelves, ingredients Harry can’t even begin to categorise, save for some scalamander scales and a jar labeled ‘pit viper’ that’s probably poison.  _ Definitely poison. _

Snape sits behind his desk, busy with a book of some sort—old, pages dry and cracked. His pallid fingers turn the pages with more care than Harry has every imagined the man capable of.

“Glad to have your attention, Mr Potter,” says Professor Oswin. He smiles wryly when Harry hastily turns to him.

“Sorry, sir.”

Professor Oswin nods amicably. “Today we start with the basics. Your situation is rather unusual,” for the first time, he looks at Harry’s scar. “Your mother’s magic saved your life, but in the process of his death, Voldemort has left the two of you with some sort of...connection.”

“Not very kind of him,” says Harry.

“Indeed. The task at hand is to teach you how to protect your mind against Voldemort, even at your most vulnerable—when you sleep, for instance.” He sighs. “If Voldemort were to become aware of this connection, he might abuse it.”

Harry grimaces. He has enough problems without Voldemort adding yet another bit to it. “How come you say his name? Most people don’t, sir.”

Professor Oswin looks straight at Harry, green eyes like small flames. “He may think himself clever and powerful, but all men are mortal, especially under the right circumstances.”

From the corner of his eye, Harry catches Snape frowning at his colleague. Admittedly, that  _ had _ been a rather ominous statement, though Harry wouldn’t doubt Professor Oswin’s skill, nor his ability to potentially duel it out with Voldemort and emerge the victor. He may even prefer that, if it takes the responsibility off his own shoulders.

“Now prepare yourself, Mr Potter,” says Professor Oswin. “I will use Legilimency on you, so that you know what it feels like. In that way, you will know better what you defend your mind against.”

Despite the warning, despite the space of a second before Professor Oswin says  _ legilimens— _

He is five. Dudley rides a red bike, one that Harry had stared avidly at when it had stood behind the—he is seven. Aunt Petunia hits him over the head with a—he is nine. The Dursleys laugh at him; Ripper has chased him up a—

He is fourteen. The maze is dark. Cedric breathes beside him,  _ breathes _ , until some little creature cradled in a traitor’s arm says—

_ No, _ thinks Harry. He pushes back, back,  _ away _ —

They’re in Snape’s office, Harry on his knees. Professor Oswin looks pained for a split second, shakes his hand as if stung.

“Did you mean to cast the Stinging Hex?” he says.

“No,” Harry croaks out. He’s almost lost his voice, not that he remembers using it so much or so loudly.

“That was a lot of screaming,” says Snape, who now stands behind his desk, book forgotten.

“I got in too easy,” says Professor Oswin. “Too easily, too deeply.”

“It’s new to him.”

“No. No mind is ever this vulnerable.” Professor Oswin bites his lip. “It shouldn’t have made him scream, either. Something’s wrong.”

Harry’s heart thuds in his chest. He does have quite the headache now, so he remains where he is. Professor Oswin produces a glass of water and gives it to him, for which Harry and his throat both are eternally grateful.

“He did push you out,” says Snape.

“Yes, eventually.” Professor Oswin shakes his head. “For a first attempt, it was not terrible. Something’s really off though.” He turns to Harry. “All right. I need you to clear your mind. Let no emotion linger, let everything go. Close your eyes.”

Harry tries, he does. But when Professor Oswin casts the spell again, they’re following Mr Weasley down a narrow corridor, at the end a plain black door, alone, no windows—

This time, even though Harry is on the ground, he’s certain Professor Oswin had lifted the spell. Harry, too tired to say anything, thinks upon that corridor, the black door, the windowless walls…

He’s dreamt about it. He has seen it for months now, a dark dream he had put aside as meaningless. He’d  _ been _ there, awake, on the twelfth of August—  

“What’s in the Department of Mysteries?” he asks.

“ _ Excuse me? _ ” says Snape.

“I’ve been dreaming about it for months,” says Harry. “I think Voldemort wants something from there.”

The silence was deafening in its quality. Snape, at first enraged, changes to completely blank in the matter of a split second. Professor Oswin’s eyebrows have gone up, but he doesn’t seem entirely present in the moment.

“Interesting,” he says. “There are many things in that Department, none of which are to be discussed. It’s protocol, you see.”

Snape looks up at him, eyebrows furrowed. “You were an Unspeakable.”

“Still am, really,” Professor Oswin says calmly. “I know too much, so they won’t fire me. In return, I do what I well please.”

Harry has the very pertinent question of what an  _ Unspeakable _ is, but he never has the chance to utter it. Professor Oswin pulls him up and sets his homework: he is to clear his mind every night before bed, and preferably also before stepping out of bed.

“We’ll see you again on Wednesday, Potter,” Snape says to him.

If only that gave him any motivation.


	12. The Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fifth year is brutal, but Harry is surviving it with his sanity intact so far.
> 
> And maybe, just maybe, he can begin to process the mess that was fourth year.

If at any point someone would have told Harry his fourth year would be nothing compared to his fifth when it comes to the sheer amount of things he’d have to do, he might have laughed. He’s not laughing, right this moment.

For one, he and Snape have settled into a quiet sort of truce, where neither of them goads or insults the other at all. Professor Oswin, if he notices anything, says nothing of it. The Occlumency lessons go more smoothly as Harry masters the art of clearing one’s mind, and with Snape on his best behaviour, he can even keep it up in this extracurricular class.

His improvement doesn’t go in leaps and bounds the way Neville’s does in Potions and Defence, nor is it anything like the sudden revelation that had come to Harry for Potions. It’s a slow, struggling thing, a bit strangled around the edges, and with a lot of headaches. Interspersed with bits of legilimency are bouts of theory lessons, in which Harry learns more than he’s ever wanted to.

“You’re a natural legilimens?” he asks of Snape.

“Yes,” Snape says curtly. “Hence why I can’t teach you this material. Both Legilimency and Occlumency come to me more naturally than it does to others.”

“Meanwhile my tutors had to make me sit still for five minutes,” Professor Oswin mutters.

“You had tutors?” Harry turns to Oswin, who grimaces.

“I may be a Count,” he answers quietly.

He doesn’t look it at all, not in his jeans and flannel shirt, with his hair down, and a relaxed sort of pose. The most expensive thing Harry’s seen on him is that elusive wedding band, and possibly the gold necklace half-hidden under his shirt.

“A Count?” Harry repeats.

“Well the—” Professor Oswin bites his lip. “The land is not recognised as a County anymore, not since England went and decided to draft the Statute. So really the only title I have that’s worth anything is that of Marquess. Which is not mine, really; I’m more of a Consort, which is a nice change of pace.”

Again Harry is struck by how little the man reflects his title. Zaahir exudes more of the elegance Harry associates with nobles; she wields power and responsibility with ease, walks as if the room owes her attention.

“The Potters are also descended from nobility, you know?” Professor Oswin says. “Granted, the title ceased to exist properly—again, blame the Statute, but—what?”

Harry gapes at him. “The Potters are what?”

“Descended from nobility. You know, you listen better in Defence class.”

“Please,” says Professor Snape, aggrieved. “Don’t fill the boy’s head with too many high tales. They’ll inflate his already large head.”

Professor Oswin shrugs. “It’s always good to know where you come from. Snape is not a magical surname as far as I know…”

“It’s not,” Professor Snape says quietly. If he could, Harry imagines Snape would bore two holes into Professor Oswin. Then, almost as if it were his wisdom teeth being yanked out, Snape says, “My mother was Eileen Prince.”

“Oh!” says Professor Oswin, quite aptly like he’s been granted a gift. “The Princes. They were a nice Jewish family, a strong line that lasted until Voldemort’s first rise to power. Shame, really. The Second World War caused so much irreparable damage.”

Snape has gone absolutely still. Instead of possibly annihilating Professor Oswin with his stare, he seems to consider this new information. Harry looks between them, perhaps awaiting an explosion, perhaps considering whether Professor Oswin even realises he’s stepped on a landmine. The man is the image of enthusiastic patience.

“I didn’t know that,” Snape says quietly. “About my...mother.”

If Harry had to take a guess, he’d say Professor Oswin looks saddened. “I figured. I only know because my mother instilled in me the need to catalogue lineages. Things happen quickly, you see, and now another war’s looming…”

They go still again. Harry hadn’t really thought about it—war. It’s not a far-fetched assumption; Voldemort is out there gathering his forces. Occasionally Harry gets flashes, and in the most recent one Voldemort had felt decidedly happy, like something good’s happened. It doesn’t bode well.

The  _ Daily Prophet _ of Tuesday morning informs them that many of Voldemort’s former followers are now escapees. Harry could do with showing a bit more surprise, but this is the level of bad news that’s become somewhat normal now.

Someone from the Department of Mysteries has also been murdered via Devil’s Snare.

“Broderick Bode,” Ron repeats after Hermione reads the news. “He worked with Dad, I think…”

“We saw him at the hospital,” Hermione tells them. “Didn’t know he was an Unspeakable…”

Nobody else seems to care about Mr Bode, but at least some students look doubtful of the contrived story the Ministry’s put up—that the escaped convicts must be rallying around Sirius Black, the only man to break out of Azkaban on his own.

A few days later, Harry does finally look at the notice board in the common room—not because he wants to confirm that the next Hogsmeade visit is on the 14th of February, but more because Hermione had just gone through the trouble of posting something.

It’s the copy of the agreement with the House Elves. Several students point at it, not sure what to make of its content, and it doesn’t stop when they go down for breakfast.

“I gave Luna a copy,” she explains. “She knows someone in Hufflepuff, who’s put it up, and of course Zaahir’s made copies of her copy…”

The news spreads around the school like wildfire. Hermione explains that it will remain within the school for the time being, as none of them have plans to post the agreement anywhere else. Around the same time, the elves become more visible, and they seem to want to congregate around Zaahir and Hermione.

“Oh, my favourite lions!” Zaahir says when they approach her. Some of the House Elves plop away, apparently pleased by their little chat. They’ve been hounding Hermione to thank her half the morning already.

Malfoy, who stands next to Zaahir, nods at them. His face seems more relaxed than Harry’s ever seen it, even though his expression reveals nothing. His hair isn’t slicked back, but rather falls in loose curls against his forehead; it’s shorter at the sides and longer at the front.

Harry realises with a thud of his heart that the git is actually,  _ really _ handsome. Somehow he manages to not go red in the face.

“They’re a bit eager, aren’t they?” Zaahir says as Hermione bids goodbye to another group of Elves. “You’re lucky I’ve dissuaded them from imparting gifts.”

“Lovegood’s having a good time,” Malfoy remarks. He gestures with his chin to where Luna sits, surrounded by House Elves who listen intently. If Harry lags a bit in looking from him to Luna, nobody seems to notice.

“Yes, well,” Hermione says, “she’s a natural when it comes to chaos.”

Malfoy grins, which is where Harry realises he’s doomed.

***

The problem is, right, that Draco Malfoy has not been a nuisance in months, in fact he’s nice. His new team seems to consist of Zaahir, Zabini, Bulstrode, and Theodore Nott. Harry finds himself half-hoping Malfoy will join the early morning Saturday study circle, but he doesn’t.

Not for the first time, his eyes stray towards the Slytherin table every time he’s not got them pointed elsewhere, or when he’s lost in thought, or when he hears Zaahir cute little laugh. Malfoy sits to her left, always.

It’s so bad he almost forgets entirely about Valentine’s Day until Ron and Hermione are set to leave. Harry’s supposed to meet Cho down by the lake at one, a nice time to have lunch. He’s there at ten to, and a few minutes later Cho appears with a blanket and a quick spell to make sure their behinds don’t freeze.

Harry has Dobby provide the meal, and Dobby has the grace not to make this into some sort of romantic...thing.

As they sit, Cho asks about his plans for the future. “Have you thought about what kind of career you’d like to have? It’s a hot topic for the fifth-years.”

“Uh,” says Harry, who has, in fact, not thought about it at all, “Not really? I could be an Auror, I suppose.” The idea doesn’t quite take root. He has one dark madman to worry about. Does he truly want to spend the rest of his life chasing other people too?

Cho smiles. “Well, you’ve the time to think it over. I’m going to Hong Kong for a year before I decide what to do.”

She is full of stories about Hong Kong, about how pretty it had been on her last visit, how loud, how colourful. She has pictures, and they’re nothing like Harry had expected—colourful, yes, but also elegant in some places like temples, messy in some neighbourhoods, lively, always lively.

“We go there every year,” says Cho. “I’d miss it if we didn’t, I think.”

“I’ve never been outside of Britain, far as I know,” Harry confesses. “Scotland’s the first time I was out of England.”

“Oh, really?” she looks at him with big, surprised brown eyes.

“My aunt and uncle—they’re not big on travel, not to ‘exotic’ places.” He does air quotes for exotic; it’s the sort of racist code he’s come to recognise from the Dursleys. He’s certain someone in his dad’s line must’ve been foreign at some point; he can’t imagine he’d be brown otherwise.

“That’s a shame,” says Cho. “I’d wanted to take Cedric along for the summer—” She stops there, lips pressed together. Harry understands that, somehow, because despite it all, Cedric is still an open wound.

“I think he’d have loved that,” Harry tells her.

They sit like that for a moment, eyes on the lake. It’s still frozen over, and Harry briefly wonders if the squid is all right there, if it misses the surface. Now that Harry’s seen what’s down there, he can’t imagine the giant squid can be lonely, even if the merpeople hadn’t seemed like the friendliest bunch.

Cho says, “Cedric really went too early, didn’t he?”

She’s crying. Harry would like to join her, but something has frozen up inside of him. Cedric Diggory is the one topic he does not want to broach, but he has to. He has to.

“Yeah, he did.” There’s little else to it. Before he well knows what he’s doing, he tells her all of it—how Cedric had wanted to be fair, because they’d gotten to the trophy at the same time, how the thing had whisked them away, how Wormtail had appeared, how Voldemort had said ‘ _ Kill the spare’ _ as if Cedric was little else but a worm, a nuisance to be squashed. How Harry still has nightmares about that sightless gaze, how he had fought to come back and couldn’t leave Cedric’s body behind.

When he stops talking, the tears come at last. He doesn’t know where they’ve been, but they come like a waterfall now, and he can barely breathe through them. “He didn’t deserve that,” Harry says to Cho, “Cedric didn’t deserve that.”

It’s wretched. She hugs him, her own tears hot against his neck. Harry doesn’t even care, because they’re both sobbing horridly. They’re in pain, and for the first time, Harry feels okay admitting that. He’s in pain.

“Thank you, Harry,” Cho says against his shoulder. “Thank you.”

They walk back together, and Harry has never felt lighter in his life.

***

“The trick now is,” says Professor Oswin two weeks later, “to keep your mind completely blank as you move around.”

Harry, who had now managed to empty his mind a fully week in a row looks at the man as if he were asking him to dance naked outside while it snows. February is still frigid, too, which has extended some snowball fights.

“Sorry?” says Harry. He’s still half in a fugue, which is sort of a pleasant side-effect of clearing his mind. It helps keep his temper even, too.

“If you’re completely frozen, Potter,” says Snape, “it gives away that you’ve Occluded.”

“It’s also not an effective way to defend yourself,” Professor Oswin points out. “An unmoving target is free prey.”

Of course it isn’t easy. If anything were easy about this, Harry would have been done ages ago. At least he’s still on top of his homework.

At the end of the lesson, he’s managed to twitch a pinky. Professor Oswin seems far too proud of this. “It’s a start,” he assures Harry. “I suggest you seek out someone to watch over you as you practice, preferably someone versed in Mind Magic.”

No student is versed in Mind Magic, Harry wants to say. Instead he leaves Snape’s office and heads to the library on a whim. If there is one person in this entire school who could know Mind Magic, who likely knows more than Hermione Granger, the local swot witch herself...

As he had wagered, Zaahir is in the library. With Malfoy, who sits at her side, his pale hair yellowed by the afternoon torches. He’s so pretty it makes Harry  _ angry _ , so he stands there, Occludes, and probably looks the giant fool.

He has to circle them so that he isn’t blinded with rage at Draco Malfoy’s general prettiness, which is unfair, infuriating, maddening, possibly the worst thing since—

“Draco, it is  _ not _ that difficult—”

“I am too beautiful, and too gay—”

“I  _ regret _ teaching you that line.” Zaahir sounds amused. “But darling, listen...he’s had that scarf since before Christmas.  _ Do _ something. Hello, Harry.”

Harry blinks away his thoughts. He possibly goes completely red to the tip of his nose, if he’s to believe the heat in his face, and it’s not fair that Malfoy now looks at him, his full lips pressed in a line, his grey eyes wide.

“Er,” says Harry.

“Do sit,” says Zaahir, as if she can tell Harry has short-circuited horribly. “To what do I owe this pleasure? I wasn’t expecting you until Saturday.”

“Yes, well,” Harry starts. He does his best not to look at Malfoy, but it’s in vain. “I, er—do you know Mind Magic?”

“I do not,” Malfoy says crossly. He frowns.

“I do,” says Zaahir. She grins with great mirth. “Is there a reason for this question?”

“I need help.” Harry finally manages to look away. His cheeks are still heated.

“Oh, come on Potter,” says Malfoy, a playful smirk on his lips. “Cryptic is not your style. I promise I won’t tell anyone your dirty little secrets.” He doesn’t even sound snide, the bastard. 

“Well, I’m sorry if I don’t immediately believe you,” says Harry. “We have a bit of a, hmm, rocky history, you and I.”

At least Malfoy acknowledges this, but the smirk turns into a thin press of his lips. He nods, but seems otherwise unhappy, the corners of his mouth tipped downwards. Harry almost feels bad; Malfoy looks better when he smiles, but Harry’s not about to let his sudden interest in Malfoy’s pretty... _ everything _ cloud his judgement.

“I’ll vouch for him,” says Zaahir. “If he says anything without your express permission, I will skin him myself.”

Malfoy makes a short, pitched noise, scandalised. His mouth hangs open, and he places a hand on his chest, mockingly shocked at this declaration. “How  _ dare _ you? I thought we were friends? I have  _ excellent _ skin.”

“Precisely!”

Even though Harry is grateful, he’s still hesitant, but Zaahir waits patiently until he’s gathered up the courage to speak further. “Well, I need to practice Occlumency…”

He tells them about the extra lessons, though not the reason behind them. Malfoy has the mind to cast Muffliato around them so no one can overhear; at this hour, many students are about the library, desperately seeking to finish their essays in timely fashion, if not up to standard.

“I see,” says Zaahir. “May I have a look inside that pretty head of yours?” Harry takes a moment to prepare himself, and when he nods, she says, “Look at me.”

It’s almost a command, and Harry follows it without thought before he realises his mistake. It’s not that Professor Oswin hasn’t warned him about eye-contact and Legilimency, but he’s still surprised at the string of flashes that come to him now, most of them of his terrible—  

—locked in the cupboard for a day without any meals, hit over the head with a pan, left along in the cupboard to recover, his first and only glasses—

His mind goes blank. He can still  _ feel _ Zaahir in there; she whirls once and then leaves. Then she’s sitting in front of him, head inclined.

“That was terrifying,” Harry hears Malfoy say. “Teach me.”

When Harry steps out of his empty mind to greet the world, Zaahir looks directly into Malfoy’s eyes. A second later, she sits back, drums with her nails against the table. They’re dark, black, but  the light reveals them to be metallic green.

“Well,” she says. “Harry was quicker to push me out, but you were much harder to invade. I’ve got my work cut out.”

Sunday evening, they decide, will be the time for them to practice Mind Magic. Harry has sacrificed so much of his free time, he’s half-surprised he even agrees to add to more of this madness.

“You know where the Come and Go Room is, right?” she asks Harry. He nods. “Good. Draco, you’ll have to come with me…”

He watches the two of them go. Malfoy glances back at him once, throws him a little wave. Harry has palpitations all the way back to the common room.

“Are you all right?” Hermione asks when he plops down next to her. Harry grins so wide he might split his face. He doesn’t care. “Is it Cho?”

“What?”

Ron now also pays attention from where he’s still busy with the Herbology essay. Harry had finished it during the early morning break.

“Well,” says Hermione, “You went on a date with her, didn’t you?”

“A date? We didn’t—oh that,” Harry sighs. “It wasn’t a date. We just talked.”

“By the lake,” says Hermione. “On Valentine’s Day.”

“By the lake. On Valentine’s Day.” Harry shrugs. “She’s nice. We had a good talk, shed a few tears.”

“So what did you talk about?” says Hermione. Ron has since abandoned any pretense of writing his essay, which is just fine for Harry.

“Our past mutual romantic interest in a certain person.”

He leaves them with that tidbit of information. It had burst out of him spontaneously; he’s been meaning to come out to his friends somehow, at Ginny’s urging, but he hadn’t figured out how. Telling them about his past crush on Cedric, however covert, is apparently one way to do it.

Saturday is a study group and Quidditch practice, and with Snape having banned Slytherins from any demeaning songs—“that is beneath us”—Ron does a whole lot better as a Keeper. Their last game had been against Hufflepuff, who had seemed to think Zacharias Smith is a good addition to the team. It is most certainly not.

Harry is most glad for Sunday. Hermione doesn’t ask him about Cho again, insisting now to look at him suspiciously instead. Harry ignores her and tries not to be too obvious as he steals glances at the Slytherin table.

It’s fortunate that Zaahir and Malfoy now appear to be such close friends.

He takes off for the Come and Go Room at six. The stairs mislead him as if he were some unwitting first year, so he makes it there at fifteen past, panting. Zaahir and Malfoy wait for him there, at a door Harry is certain has never been there.

“It’s a simple trick,” Zaahir says when Harry asks. “You ask the wall here for something you may need or want. Say, a place to safely practice Mind Magic.”

She opens the door to reveal a cushy, well-lit room. One wall, to the left, is made up entirely of shelves with books expounding upon the topic of Mind Magic, some splitting it into the two components—Occlumency and Legilimency.

“Dobby showed you this?” Harry says.

“I wanted a place to experiment with potions,” Zaahir tells him. “What he showed me then was a room full of—things. Artifacts. That’s where I found the agreement.”

“Ingenious,” Malfoy murmurs. Harry’s attention snaps to him, following his movements as he canvasses the room and its contents. Malfoy’s long, pale fingers caress the spines of the books, and Harry has a sudden urge to kiss his hand.

Zaahir claps her hands together. Harry startles so bad, he knocks the door shut.

“Thank you, Harry,” says Zaahir. “Sit. All of this will be taxing.”

First they have to clear their minds, and Harry is rather adept at this now. Malfoy is a natural, much to his dismay, though he can’t move either when Zaahir asks him to empty his mind further.

“Now I will try to invade again,” she says. Harry sees her go for her wand, and that’s the most aware he’s been of his surrounding in weeks.  _ Improvement. _

Several Sundays pass like this, and with the Mondays to follow it up, Harry sees improvement come in great steps. He can move his head, and even in his blank state, he can follow conversations and recount them afterwards in great detail. Malfoy has more trouble with this, though not for lack of trying.

“But I’ll admit,” he murmurs to Harry, “it explains how she has managed not to murder half the school.”

Both Malfoy and Zaahir have become Slytherin rejects, not that either of them seems to care for it all that much. From Malfoy, this is surprising; not long ago he’d been the Prince of the Slytherin court. How quickly one can fall from grace.

“Harry,” Zaahir asks one early Saturday morning. He has an inkling that he may not like what she says next. “How would you like to do an interview?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy weekend!


	13. The Unforeseen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry would love to have a quiet, untroubled sort of life, but at this point that is a distant dream.
> 
> And Zaahir does rather like making things happen with a huge bang and drama to top it off.

One surefire way to anger the Ministry, or send it in complete disarray, is to have an interview with another Spanish expat who is a reporter and friendly with a Spanish Marchioness. It’s all neat, and takes place on Sunday afternoon, before he is to take on Mind Magic again later in the evening.

Harry isn’t too keen on discussing Cedric, not with some unknown.

Augustino Alvares is a tall, lanky man in his late fifties, black hair streaked with silver. In many ways, he is a credit to his profession—quiet, attentive, a good ear for the right sort of questions to ask.

Zaahir stays throughout the entire interview. Harry is grateful for that; his last experience with reporters had been with Rita Skeeter, and by all rights that had been uncomfortable.

“This won’t appear in the  _ Daily Prophet _ , perchance?” he asks at the end. He’d managed not to cry a single tear the entire time, though his eyes certainly had tried to betray him a few times.

“We publish it first in Spain,” Mr Alvares tells him. “Then we sell it to the  _ Quibbler _ .”

“[Gracias, Augustino](-),” says Zaahir. “[Tienes todo mi aprecio. Cuidate!](-)”

They watch the man leave. Harry says, “Luna will be ecstatic.”

“It’s always good to cultivate alternative sources.” 

Malfoy joins them early, just around when they have Winky deliver their dinner. Somehow, Zaahir must have calculated this into her plans, because they have plenty of food for the three of them.

Instead of Mind Magic, they do homework together. Zaahir, madwoman that she is, has already finished hers, so instead of helping them, she extends the room to include a little section with a cauldron. Then she proceeds to make several things explode.

Malfoy shakes his head. “She’s far too happy over there.”

Harry, who had just been too busy looking at Malfoy’s eyelashes, nods.

February has given way to a cloudy-weathered March, which now nears fickle April. Hagrid brings them once more to the forest to see the thestrals, and this time Harry doesn’t shy away from showing Malfoy where they are, or lead his hand to a thestral’s back, to it’s dark mane.

“Are they all this scrawny?” Malfoy asks. He’s so near, every breath Harry takes fills his nose with Malfoy’s scent. It’s soft and almost earthy.

“You’d not think that, with how much they eat,” Harry says, laughing. Malfoy’s hand was now on the thestral’s belly—Alborada, Hagrid had called this one. She’s a rather pretty one, for all that she now seems rotund on top of her spindly legs.

“Something just  _ kicked _ me,” Malfoy says softly, in mild alarm. “Potter! Something kicked my hand from  _ inside _ the—”

“Yer see,” Hagrid’s voice booms from above them. “This on ‘ere, she’s pregnant.”

Several students coo, but Malfoy just looks more alarmed than before. Harry, without thinking, grabs his arms from behind and leads him to another, non-pregnant thestral. It’s a young thing, barely at the height of Harry’s shoulder.

“This one’s a bit smaller,” he says into Malfoy’s ear. It sends a shiver down Malfoy’s spine, which does several bad things to Harry in turn. It’s only then that he releases Malfoy’s arm, hoping beyond hope that Malfoy doesn’t mention it. He doesn’t.

They linger a bit after class. Despite Malfoy’s earlier reaction, he’s now quite taken with the thestrals, unable as he is to see them. “Luna drew me a picture,” Malfoy says, “She’s rather good.”

If Harry’s friends notice how ecstatic he is after that lesson, possibly walking on clouds to reach the ninth one, they don’t say anything. Hermione just frowns, but she doesn’t try for any answers—not that Harry can even begin to formulate them.

Classes continue smoothly; Harry even gets an O for a Potions essay. He gets another O for Defence, which had both been due in the same week. Charms and Transfigurations both offer up an E, a week later, and he’s doing his best to work with Herbology and Divination when it finally happens.

A barrage of owls come to him on a Thursday morning. The first one is in Spanish, so he passes it on to Zaahir, who has been as kind as to take seat next to him. Then come a mix of Spanish and English letters, and one lonely letter in French, which Zaahir passes on to Malfoy, who has just come down to breakfast.

“I know for a fact you read French, fiend,” he says to Zaahir.

“Yes, but I do so like to hear  _ you _ say the words.”

Ron takes a letter. “This one says you’re barmy,” he states.

“This one believes you,” Hermione says, a sparkle in her eye.

The letters are divided half in half—all the Spanish ones believe him, some British do, and the one French is Fleur’s sister Gabrielle, who also believes him. It’s only after Draco’s read and translated the letter out loud that Harry gets his hands on his own free copy of the  _ Quibbler _ . He’s pleasantly surprised.

Mr Alvares is a good writer—engaging, honest, patient. He tells Harry’s story with an earnest, steady pace, doesn’t misquote even one word or misinterpret the feelings given to him. If the Ministry finds a way to refute this, they’ll look exactly as paranoid and libel-happy as they are.

Before lunch, the entire school has gotten their hands on the interview. They talk about it in whispers, as if Harry can’t hear them when he stands in line for class.

“Well done, Harry,” Neville says on the way to Herbology. Professor Sprout proceeds to give him twenty points just for passing her watering can.

Later, Luna gleefully tells him that this issue of the Quibbler has sold out entirely. “Daddy has to reprint. It’s all gone fairly quickly.”

The euphoria lasts well into the afternoon, until the point Malfoy comes rushing at him, pulls him into a classroom, not minding Ron’s shouted “Hey!”

Out of breath, Malfoy says nothing for an entire minute. He raises a finger at Harry to stop him from speaking, so Harry waits until Malfoy has composed himself, and begs his mind not to look at Malfoy’s lips.

He fails that mission rather quickly.

“I—received a letter.” Malfoy pulls it out, but doesn’t let Harry read it. “From my father. He’s furious. And the Minister is too.”

“Good.” Harry crosses his arms. “Serves him right.”

“No, not good—Potter!” Malfoy seems to want to choke him. “The Minister is coming here. I don’t think—”

The door clatters open. Zaahir enters, then closes the door in Ron’s face, which quickly shuts him up again. “Oh good,” she says, “You’re here. Professors Snape and McGonagall have decided to pace themselves. It buys us some time.”

_ Now _ Harry begins to feel a bit nervous. “Why?”

“We need to straighten some things out,” Zaahir says. “Number one, Draco was not involved.” Malfoy opens his mouth, but a glare closes it firmly. “Number two, do  _ not _ give them Augustino’s name. Occlude, if you must. Number three, I insisted you do the interview—goaded and badgered, in fact. Are we clear?”

“Yeah, I’m still gay,” says Malfoy. “You can’t straighten anything out here.”

The expression on Zaahir’s face is a journey. “Oh—you—choke!”

She grabs Harry by the arm and hauls him out of the room. He can’t exactly stop her; he’s too busy having a fit over Malfoy’s response. They meet with the Heads of their respective Houses on the way, and not even their twin stern expression stops Harry’s giggles. As such, Zaahir has to pull him up the stairs to the headmaster’s office, fingers tight around his bicep.

He stops at the exact moment he sees Fudge, more because he Occludes than anything else.

“Well,” says Minister Fudge, “Well, well, well..”

“Do you require some water, sir?” Zaahir asks, eyes wide and concerned—the epitome of innocence. “Headmaster, I think he’s thirsty.”

It almost sends Harry into another fit of giggles, but his shiels hold him in place, neutral.

“Be quiet, you impertinent girl.” Fudge turns to a man next to him, whom Harry recognises as Kingsley Shacklebolt. “Is that her? Is she the one who—”

“Am I the one who what?” Zaahir says. “The one who ousted Dolores Jane Umbridge’s illegal activities inside a school? Yes, that would be I.”

As defiant as she stands, chin held up, as red Cornelius Fudge turns. It’s never been a good look on him. “You—you vile little—insolent—”

Zaahir lowers her chin. “I remind you, sir,” she says, dangerously, “that I am a Marchioness, loyal to King Juan Carlos, and any further abuses by you and your government will be reported to His Royal Majesty’s court.”

Never would Harry have thought to see the Minister of Magic so enraged. He’s half-relieved it’s not him who’s caused it, though he’s a bit too close to the actual source for that to be of any comfort at the moment.

“You. Are. Not. Above. The law,” Fudge grits out.

“Neither are you.”

For a man of his age and size, Fudge moves quickly. Before anyone can quite move, he’s surged forwards and slapped Zaahir across the face. It’s then that Harry notices Percy Weasley in the room, too shocked to do anything. Shacklebolt has help from a wizard Harry doesn’t recognise; they pull the Minister back, his face red and seething.

Dumbledore stands up. “Cornelius, I will not stand for this sort of behaviour. You will apologise to the Marchioness at once.”

“No,” says Zaahir. “I require no apology. I require his seat and title to be vacated and granted to someone else.” It has about same sound and impact as if she had just asked for his head on a silver platter, but apparently she’s not up for dramatics today.

“How dare you—” says Fudge.

“Serenely,” Zaahir tells him. “Now, I will leave this room with Mr Potter here, and I will go inform my king of the  _ brutality  _ I have been subjected to.” She turns on her heel.

Nobody stops her, no matter how high-pitched Fudge’s call is to do it. Just as they reach the end of the stairs, Zaahir stops and leans against the wall. She looks a bit pale, but waves Harry away when he asks what’s the matter.

Malfoy seems to appear out of nowhere. Harry, now no longer lost to the fugue of Occlumency, can’t shake the feeling he’s escaped one disaster just to see another one unfold right before his eyes.

“Zaahir,” Malfoy says, “Salah, you don’t look so well.”

“[Me agredió!](-)” she says impatiently. “[Sería más insulto si no lo saquean del puesto.](-)”

“I don’t understand anything you’re saying.” Malfoy looks at Harry helplessly.

“Learn Spanish,” Zaahir says shortly. She storms away, and still Harry feels like she’s managed to put the fear of God and the Devil in him.

“I think we’re about to witness a political murder,” he tells Malfoy.

***

The news spreads quickly.  _ Minister Fudge assaulted a student. _ The very next morning, King Juan Carlos I has sent Fudge an angry, accusing letter, with the translation readily published in the  _ Quibbler _ .

_ ‘It disturbs us that a young Marchioness of exceptional discipline and repute, from a great noble family who has served us loyally, has been treated to such abuses by England’s magical community—’ _

Harry has to admit that King Juan Carlos knows how to lay it in thick.

By the afternoon, the  _ Daily Prophet _ has secured a copy, and reports that Fudge is in hot waters with foreign ministers as well as the king of Spain, and nothing looks good for him. He issues an apology by the evening, which does absolute nothing to calm anyone within a hundred kilometers of Great Britain.

“He should  _ lose _ the post, is what he should do,” Hermione says between her teeth. “Slapping a student? Preposterous!”

“Looking real bad for him, innit?” says Ron. “Especially after that article with Harry. Everyone knows Zaahir set that up.”

Over the course of the next two days before the weekend, several parents send letters to the  _ Prophet  _ in which they critique the Minister. Harry doesn’t read them; he’s happy that they exist, of course, but homework is everything at the moment. Some letters are so scalding, however, that Harry wonders if Fudge doesn’t require a visit to St. Mungo’s just to care for the burn.

“Dad says Fudge is in some hot waters,” Fred informs them.

“Or on thin ice,” says George, “either way, several nations—”

“—including our dear frenemy, France—”

“—have said they would never stoop to the level Minister Fudge has shown.” 

“That should be easy,” Malfoy says when Harry repeats it to him in Potions. They’ve somehow ended up next to each other in class. “The bar has never been set lower.”

Somewhere to other side of them, Neville laughs. It’s not loud enough to have Snape come over, but he does send Nevill a sharp look.

Somehow, Fudge isn’t thrown out as Minister. Even from across the Great Hall and with his horrendously myopic eyes, Harry can see Zaahir’s locked jaw, and there really is no escaping the grinding sound coming from Hermione’s direction. Harry fears the day the two of them formulate any kind of plan to help the situation. Or worse: both go into the political arena.

Because April is a fickle little month weather-wise, its last Saturday dawns misty and with a definite chill. Harry wakes with a pounding headache, far too early for anything, but washes and gets dressed nonetheless. Out of habit, he sets out for the library, fully expecting to be alone—it’s just after dawn, the castle feels abandoned…

Zaahir is there. She looks a right mess, face pale for her doing. As Harry sits, he can’t help but edge a bit away; she looks like she’s about to vomit and cry all at once. In fact, she sniffles, and her cheeks shine with tears freshly shed.

Harry opens his mouth. She glares him into silence.

They sit like that. Too afraid to upset her further, Harry casts his eyes to one of the books he’s brought along with the intention to use it as a source. Distracted with the thought that Zaahir is  _ crying _ and he doesn’t know what to do, he stares at it blankly; he hasn’t realised he’s Occluded by accident until he registers that Winky has popped in, bringing along a bottle of—

“Is that Coca Cola?” The label around the bottle is bright red.

“No, it’s Pepsi.” Zaahir glowers at him. She sounds congested. “You’re my hero, Winky. Bring us some breakfast in fifteen minutes, yes?”

“Yes, mistress!” and away she pops.

“Why,” says Harry, “are you drinking that so early.”

“What’s to stop me,” Zaahir says. She closes her eyes, presses two fingers against the place right next to her nose. “I hate being congested.”

He watches her sip at the drink. Aside from the redness of her eyes, she has dark bags under them, and her curls could rival his in their attempt to be a nest. The tears are gone, probably wiped away. At the question of whether she’s slept at all, she rolls her eyes and waves him away. Harry’s not certain what that’s supposed to mean.

But “I’m pretty sure carbonated sugar doesn’t help with congestion,” says Harry. By this time, Winky has popped back in with breakfast, though Zaahir doesn’t look quite ready to consume anything beyond a few more sips of cola.

“Yes, well,” she says, “it’s my body, isn’t it?”

“Is this because Fudge struck you?” Harry asks.

“[No me hables de ese diablo!](-)”

The vehemence startles him. Zaahir grits her teeth but says nothing else, directing herself at the food Winky has left in front of her. Still, she doesn’t eat.

Instead of aggravating her further, Harry instead tells her of his progress with Defence. She listens with her eyes closed, nodding along. Professor Oswin has him working on shields now, though not literal shields; those can easily be brought down with enough confidence, skill, and determination.

So Harry has been working on something else. Something he’s not telling Zaahir about, otherwise the point would be moot.

“Good,” she says. Her eyes open slowly. “You’re learning. Remember to work at it in layers. People get lost in complex things.”

An hour later, they’ve gone through the basics of Herbology once more, and Harry understands mandrakes just the bit better. Neville joins them, looking rather still half-asleep, but happy to tell Harry anything about plants. In return, Harry launches into an explanation of his Potions essay on anti-venin; it’s an old one, but he has found ways to improve it beyond its relevance to the class.

In that moment, in a flash, it comes to him. Forget Aurorship— _ this _ is good, watching Neville’s eyes light up as he understands something Harry has just untangled for him.

Interruption comes in the form of Ron and Hermione, hot in the middle of an argument. Harry Occludes just to keep his sanity. Neville goes quiet and wide-eyed, which is nothing compared to the look of pure annoyance Zaahir manages to convey with just one opened eye.

“Shut up,” she tells the pair. “Por favor,  _ callense. _ ”

Ron and Hermione do fall silent, if only because of the sheer, quiet force that Zaahir had used almost seems like a spell. It isn’t; they can still politely say hello.

Apparently, Ron had come to the startling realisation that they’ve only six weeks left till their exams in June. March had flown by without warning, and April is nearly gone. Hannah Abbott had fainted just a week ago due to stress.

“You can catch up during Easter break,” Hermione says, “it’s a matter of planning.”

Two days later, the pamphlets appear and send even Hermione’s careful plans a bit topsy turvy. The fifth-years are to choose a career.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was afraid I would forget, given I started the day in a hazy fog of headache and other pains (ahh, flu season, how I've not missed you), but here it is. Upcoming updates--four more!--will happen more often on Mondays as my work schedule has changed just a tiny bit.
> 
> <3


	14. The Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Between career choices, career advice, and exams, it's all Harry can do not to get frayed at the seams.
> 
> On the other side of the country, Voldemort plots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost forgot to post [finger guns]. Three more chapters to go~

The notice comes on Monday. CAREER ADVICE, they say in bold lettering. Harry has an appointment with Professor McGonagall on the next Monday, which gives him plenty of time during the holidays to peruse all the pamphlets and such.

“Well, not Healing,” Harry mutters. There’s a veritable mountain of paper to look through, so he’s had to begin somewhere.

“Give that here,” says Ron.

Hermione looks at him sideways. “You’d go into Healing?” Her own pamphlet reads SO YOU THINK YOU’D LIKE TO WORK IN MUGGLE RELATIONS? “I thought you wanted to be an Auror.”

“Well,” Ron says, “it’s on account of my dyslexia, you see? There must be other kids out there—little wizards and witches who have it too. And we know nothing about it!”

He’s so adamant, even Hermione has to admit she’s impressed, however silently. Harry rather likes the thought of Healer Weasley, especially if it makes Ron happy.

“I just need an E in N.E.W.T-level...Potions, Herbology, Transfiguration, Charms, and Defence.” Ron sighs. “Don’t have high standards, do they?”

“It’s a great deal of responsibility,” says Hermione.

Luckily, she does not press Harry for his own choice, as Ron’s decision carries so much weight she’s more preoccupied making sure he can pass them. Harry doesn’t want to tell them until he’s discussed it with McGonagall.

The Sunday before his appointment, Malfoy tries to badger him into telling. To his utmost horror, Harry decides to Occlude and read a book. It’s not pretense.

“Are you seeing this?” the scandal in Malfoy’s voice is beautiful.

“Yes,” says Zaahir. “I am impressed. If he can replicate this tomorrow, it’ll be quite the achievement.”

Harry smirks, which is the first sign that he returns from his Occluded state. All this practice has paid off. Next he’d like to try doing it in class, as he’s supposed to practice a spell. Charms seems like a safe bet; Potions has too many dangerous variables, and Transfigurations has Professor McGonagall, who would likely eat him alive were she to find him attempting anything in her classroom whilst Occluded.

He has to miss Divination to see her on Monday at half past two. This is not a great loss to him; Trelawney is back on her dark and forbidding exclamations about the short length of his life and the bloodiness of his death.

Professor McGonagall greets him with a small, tight-lipped smile. “Welcome, Mr Potter. Do sit.” One Harry has seated himself, she asks, “Have you given any thought to your career choices?”

“Well, you see, Professor,” he says, “at first I thought I’d like to be an Auror…”

“Not an surprising statement,” says McGonagall, as if she can’t tell he’s stalling, “but you’ve changed your mind?”

“...yes.”

Her eyebrows go up the more the silence stretches. “Well, do tell us, Potter.”

Harry takes in a deep breath, blows it out. “I was thinking I could...teach.”

It’s the first time he’s said it out loud. Much as the idea of being an Auror seemed so fancy, it’d mean working for the Ministry that has spent months discrediting him. He would have to keep  _ fighting _ , and his life so far has been nothing but a fight.

Teaching is...different. He’d watched Zaahir tutor them, her diligence, her patience, the ease with which she had taken them along through the knowledge they need. He wants that too; in fact, for a few months now, he had sat down and planned lessons he could give, though the subject is never the same. It had helped him understand his classes better too, as he’d restructured the given knowledge into something different, something he could divide and conquer.

It’s where his mind goes now, when he Occludes.

“I see,” says Professor McGonagall. “And which subject do you wish to teach?”

Harry turns red. “Potions.”

“Not Defence Against the Dark Arts?”

“Well, that would be nice too, actually,” says Harry. He shrugs.

Professor McGonagall looks down at her notes. “Well, you certainly have the potential for both. Consistent Es and Os for Defence, and recently a few Os for Potions.” She looks up at him. “You must know, Professor Snape does not accept anything lower than an O in his N.E.W.T.-levels. You must get a perfect grade for your examination.”

“I’m working on it,” he promises her.

The consultation ends well. She seems confident he can make it; he just has to improve his other classes, too; just because he may teach one subject does not mean he can lag in others. Like Herbology, for instance, where he teethers between an A and an E.

“Oh, Potter,” Professor McGonagall says as he gets up to leave. “The Headmaster told me—good work on mastering Occlumency.”

Why the headmaster could not tell Harry this himself, he doesn’t know. It hardly matters now, because he has to go to his next lesson, and that night he has another remedial to test his progress.

His shield’s not going so well, but he’s gotten a basic layer to hold fast. When Professor Oswin tries to break into his mind, he finds a dark maze, warped to be infinite. Harry watches impassively as Professor Oswin stands across from him, brow furrowed—

—Cedric had smiled just a little, it was in the small tilt of his lips—

Harry throws Professor Oswin out with enough force that the man staggers. He then apologises profusely, because a jar of  _ something _ had broken, and now Professor Snape looks alarmed at the fumes that come out.

“Well, that was rather good,” says Professor Oswin. He repairs the vial and watches with interest as Snape  casts a shield charm to keep the fumes from spreading. “You may want to keep that as your inner shield. Now find something for an outer shield, if you please. Something less likely to trigger a memory.”

And so May rolls around, with Harry crafting away on a new shield. It’s tricky, that, because he has to keep the other one intact and  _ build _ on it.

Many times, Harry sees Hagrid from the common room window, limping out of the Forbidden Forest. Once, he even sees Firenze come out with him, and they look to be arguing. Whyever Hagrid thinks to start an argument with a centaur remains a true mystery. One time he even sees Hagrid argue with Zaahir, and, boy, that cannot be anywhere near good.

But around that same time, Harry doesn’t exactly have the space to go and visit Hagrid. Between Occlumency and homework, his schedule is too tight for freedom of movement. He’s also got Quidditch, and if Angelina doesn’t calm down someone might burst out in tears. That someone may be Ron.

Their match against Ravenclaw is a decisive one. Ravenclaw had lost to Slytherin and won to Hufflepuff, meaning that they are now third. If Gryffindor wins, which is easy enough according to Angelina, then the cup is theirs.

“No stress,” Harry says to Ron. “You’ve gotten better.”

The match takes place during the last weekend of May. It’s an easy enough play, and Harry finds himself accidentally Occluding half the time, yet still able to perform. In fact, he notices the Snitch at about the same time he finishes a lesson plan in his head, and so he dives sharply towards the flash of gold on instinct, and within seconds—

“POTTER’S GOT THE SNITCH,” Lee Jordan tells the stadium. “IT MUST BE THE FASTEST MATCH IN HISTORY!”

In fact, they’d only been up in the air for about half an hour. Angelina complains about this as Fred and George grin widely behind her. “Couldn’t you have waited till we got another twenty points? We’re just above Slytherin now.”

“But we have the cup,” Ron says breathlessly. “We have it!”

They pile into the common room with their newly earned trophy. Six minutes into the celebration, Harry spots Hermione all by her lonesome in a corner. He nudges Ron to come with him, but Hermione stands before they reach her.

Without a word, she leads them to the Come and Go Room, where she produces a room not unlike the one Zaahir has for the Occlumency lessons. She waits for a few furious minutes until Zaahir herself comes in looking like she’d rather be elsewhere, possibly being sick over a toilet.

“Are you all right?” asks Hermione.

“[Estoy bien](-),” says Zaahir. “Tell them.”

Hermione’s expression darkens. “Hagrid has a brother.”

It falls into silence. Harry feels all of the elation from their Quidditch win dissolve. At his side, Ron deflates completely.

“When you say ‘brother’, you mean…” Harry begins.

“Actual relative,” says Zaahir. “Half-brother, really, and younger than Hagrid.”

“That’s why it took him so long to return,” says Hermione. “He brought Grawp along. He wants us to help him, especially now that the centaurs are so livid with him for bringing along a giant.”

“In his defence,” says Zaahir, “it  _ is _ his brother, and a rather small giant.”

“Small?” Hermione says, incredulous. “ _ Small? _ Small.”

The only response she gets is a shrug and a bland look. Then Zaahir sicks up in a rather well-placed basket. It vanishes as soon as she’s done, and a bottle of water appears instead, which Zaahir accepts.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Even Ron looks concerned now.

“I’m peachy,” says Zaahir squeaks. “Just fine.”

“Maybe you ought see Madam Pomfrey,” Hermione suggests.

“Absolutely not,” says Zaahir. She turns around and leaves; the door makes a muted noise when it shuts.

“All right,” says Harry, “But what do we do about Hagrid?”

***

_ Nothing, _ is the answer. They get swooped up with homework, and then suddenly it’s the O.W.L.s come knocking at their door. June arrives with sun and gusto, not that any of the fifth-years get to enjoy any of it.

The fifth-years are also in a veritable frenzy. Their O.W.L.s are spread over two successive weeks, and it’s not a few students who have fainting spells. Harry thinks it’s all rather dramatic, but then he’s been sleeping rather well knowing he has most things under control, and his O in Potions is all but assured.

“Of course, I must warn you,” says Professor McGonagall, “there will be the most stringent Anti-Cheating Charms placed upon your tests…”

They also don’t get their results until sometime in July, which gives them just over a month to feel a brush of freedom before they’re either met with delight, or with the crushing realisation that their futures are a disaster.

Harry hears so many whispers of gloom and doom, sees the mess of nerves Gryffindor tower has become, and decides to spend the Sunday before his first examinations in the Come and Go Room. The door is already there in the morning, and he finds Zaahir curled up on a large cushion. She looks different then, truly relaxed. Harry finds a blanket to cover her with.

The peace of mind he goes to bed and then wakes with holds through his first exam—Theory of Charms. He has to Occlude when he meets up with Hermione, because she’s working herself into a state, asking about the questions and what answers they’ve given.

Their practical examinations come after, and Harry thinks it’s all well and good until he spots Malfoy and nearly fires the Colour-Changing Charm at the floor rather than at the rat he’s supposed to focus on.

“Well, at least you did it well,” says Ron, “I turned a plate into mushrooms. No idea how. It just happened.”

Transfiguration follows on Tuesday, then Herbology on Wednesday. Harry comes out of them certain he’d made at least one mistake, if not more, but it did not do to dwell anymore. The next exam is Defence on Thursday, which is the first time Harry feels secure at all. Professore Oswin had done a good job of dragging them out of the dearth Umbridge had left them in.

During the practical, one of the examiners is rather impressed with him, especially when Harry easily banishes the boggart. “Well done, Mr Potter! You’re ready to go, unless of course…”

Harry waits. Professor Tofty eyes him curiously. “I’ve heard from a good friend that you can cast a corporeal Patronus?”

Calmly, Harry imagines the first time he had heard Malfoy laugh; it still produces indigestible butterflies in his stomach. He casts the spell. His stag darts out brightly, trotting along the classroom. All the examiners stop to look until it dissolves into silver mist.

“Splendid, Mr Potter!” says Professor Tofty. His hands are clasped together. “You may go now! Truly fantastic.”

On Friday they have a free day, except for Hermione; she has Ancient Runes. She clambers back onto the common room with a terrible look about her and doesn’t speak to them the entire weekend.

“Which is all well and good,” says Ron the next Monday, “but how am i supposed to prepare for anything without help?”

Potions comes next, and Harry aces it, especially the question about Polyjuice. He can describe its effects in full detail owing to firsthand experience, not that he’s about to give that little detail away to Professor Snape, of course. Not even to these examiners.

The other exams and their practicals pass by in a haze. The last of it is History, which takes place in the afternoon given that Astronomy had come the night before, and many had stayed up to discuss it far into the morning.

Harry’s not exactly well-slept. He hasn’t been since after the Potions exam, and his mind has absolutely flooded with questions and answers and formulas. History is supremely dull, to boot.

It’s at ‘ _ How was the Statute of Secrecy breached in 1749 and what measures were introduced to prevent a recurrence?’ _ that Harry begins to feel strange. He looks up at Parvati’s head, and if he could just concentrate, perhaps he could open a window in her mind, peer into it—  

He shakes his head, tries to Occlude. Something is wrong.

_ Describe the circumstances that led to the Formation of the International Confederation of Wizards and explain why the warlocks of Liechtenstein refused to join. _

His mistake, he concludes later, is that he forgot to Occlude like he’d been doing before every examination. Just for five minutes. It sets his shields better, but then his second, outer shielding, isn’t as strong as the inner one and—

A glance to his right. Harry no longer sits in the Great Hall. He wears a black robe and walks barefoot across another hall, a hall lined with shelves, filled with crystals.

The room is as large as a cathedral, with an arching roof. The crystal spheres glow dimly in the dark place. He walks and walks between the shelves, among the crystals—  

_ Harry Potter & Lord Voldemort _ .

It catches his eye. He knows what it is, he  _ knows _ , it’s a secret, and if he reaches for it, he can  _ take _ it and it will be his, his alone—  

Dizzy now, Harry falls from his chair. The ground is hard and cold, and somebody near him is screaming, screaming, screaming, and the entire Hall is in motion, like shadows in a bright room.

His scar is on fire.


	15. The Mysteries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a race against time to the Department of Mysteries. Many things unravel, then, not in the least the Ministry itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorrrryyyy I forgot to post yesterdayyyy here have some wordssss [throws confetti]

In a final fit to make his head cease its attempt to explode, Harry manages to Occlude. It doesn’t help the image to fade; Voldemort’s finally found a way in, or will—whichever it is, Harry has to leave _now._

They let him out of the Hall on the excuse that he has suffered enough pressure from the exam. At first Harry doesn’t even know what to do or where to go. A moment later, still Occluded, he runs to the Headmaster’s office, shoving people out of his way.

The gargoyle doesn’t let him in. “What do you mean he’s away?”

“Exactly what I meant to mean.” The gargoyle sniffs. “Now off you go.”

Harry tries McGonagall’s office next, but finds she’s not there, nor does he have any clue as to where she could be. None of the students about know either, so Harry stomps away. _Such a good day for teachers to be gone._

Luna and Ginny intercept him on his way to Gryffindor tower. “Are you all right?” Ginny asks. “We heard you’d fainted…”

“I need you to gather up some people,” he says, “people we trust. Meet me on the seventh floor.” He gives them directions to the Come and Go Room, then goes off to change his clothes.

When he arrives there himself, Ron and Hermione wait for him, as well as Ginny, Luna, Neville, Fred and George. He doesn’t give them a chance to ask questions; he summons up a room where they find all sorts of fighting gear, which about the mood Harry is in at the moment.

“What’s going on?” Hermione asks.

Harry takes the time to explain it to her, though his patience runs thin fast. He doesn’t answer their questions, they just need to know that Voldemort is nearing his prize, and since no one is here, they’ll just have to go stop him.

Someone throws the door open. Zaahir waltzes in, Malfoy on her heels. He seems afraid of her, like he’d been some distant months ago, and she does seem to be in a state. A temper. It’s like watching a contained storm.

“Potter, it’s a damned trap.”

Harry glares at her. “How would you know?”

She gazes back, undaunted. “Think, you fool! I was right there when you had your vision. Only in reality, Voldemort managed to get past your defences and implant something in your head, and now you’ve gone off in righteous fury.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” says Hermione. “The Ministry is bound to be full of people right about now. He cannot just walk in unnoticed.”

“Oh, he can,” says Zaahir. “He just hasn’t yet.”

Harry bristles. “So we should go before he does. If they don’t see him coming—”

“That’s not our job!”

“Maybe not yours,” Harry seethes. “But I won’t let him get in there! I’ve seen what he’s after, and he can’t have it.”

“If I may,” says Malfoy. “This is a dangerous thing to do. Mind you, I do believe something is happening; my father has been plotting, and that bodes ill for everyone. But we can’t just break into the Ministry.”

“It’s a _trap_ ,” Zaahir insists.

“So we spring the trap,” Harry says, resolute.

Ron has his back, at least. The others nod along; it’s only Hermione and Zaahir who still seem dubious. The latter looks about with a displeased set to her lips. “Does anyone here know how to spring a trap set by a madman?”

“No,” says Ron. “But there’s a first time for everything.”

At that, even Zaahir has to concede their point. Malfoy snarls at Ron without much heat, and at that point even Hermione gives in.

“But how do we get there?” she says.

That stops them for a moment, because it’s not like any of them know how to apparate except for Fred and George, and the two of them alone can’t ferry all of them along. It’d attract the wrong sort of attention. Apparition on Hogwarts grounds is impossible anyway, which leaves them with the floo.

“Monitored by the Ministry still,” Hermione reminds them. “And flying’s no good either. Harry’s cloak can’t cover all of us.”

“Thestrals,” Luna says softly. Neville groans.

Zaahir sighs. “Discreet. They’ll know where to go, since I don’t suppose any of you knows the address.”

They file out of the room and head out to the forest. Zaahir suggests they go in smaller groups, ones seen walking about more often, as it would raise less suspicion than if all of them go at once. She lags behind for a moment, but then seems to find them quickly once they’re at the edge of the forest.

Once under the shadow of the trees, Zaahir lets out an ear-piercing cry. It makes all of them jump about ten feet, and then she _repeats it._

Deeper. A herd of thestrals come to them; Harry sees their eyes first, and then they take shape. The creatures seem almost curious, questioning.

Zaahir bows. “We need your help. We wish to go to the Ministry of Magic, in London. Can you take us?”

They listen attentively, and at last, after seconds tick by, a tall mare bows her head in return. Zaahir motions for them to come forward. Only half of them could see the thestrals, so they pair up—Ginny with Luna, Zaahir with Fred, Neville with George, and Harry with—  

Malfoy. Apparently fate has something against him.

Before they ready up, Harry steps to Zaahir. She leads Fred to a thestral nearby, and instructs him on how to climb and sit. She turns to him once Fred is up, face neutral.

“Listen, Zaahir,” Harry begins.

“Salah,” she says.

“Right,” says Harry, “Salah, thank you—”

She sighs. “Don’t mention it.”

Once they’re all set, Harry looks about. He supposes they wait for some sort of signal, or a word from Salah, and so he looks at her, impassive as she is—  

A sweeping movement from the thestral under him and they’re in the air. It nearly unseats Harry, but he grabs at the dark mane and holds on for dear life. It’s nothing at all like flying on a broom; for one, a broom is not alive, doesn’t have its own thoughts and wiles, and certainly doesn’t flap about with wings.

The sun is dark red before it sets. They soar over Hogwarts grounds, and for the first time the castle seems small, like a miniature plaything. Hogsmeade comes into view, tiny in the distance, and then twilight sets true and well, so that Harry has to blink before he can see well again.

Little Muggle towns pass by, their lights the only thing Harry can truly make out. His face goes cold and his legs tremble; he’s never been on a regular horse before, and now he’s gone and sat on one that can fly.

Behind him, Hermione gives a shriek. Ginny whoops; they’re descending now, the lights become larger and larger until Harry can see a street. Soon he’s certain that they hurtle violently towards the pavement, but then the thestral lands gracefully, as light as a feather. Harry feels no impact.

Most of them topple off their thestrals, yet somehow Luna and Salah land smoothly, as if it’s all natural to mount a flying black horse. Malfoy at least lands on his feet, though he seems shaken by the entire experience.

Salah bows again to the thestrals. “I thank you. May the moon ever bless you.” She looks about, counts them. “We’re all here. Where to?”

Harry leads them along. The phone boxes are as he remembers them, and packed in as they are, he has to bend his arms awkwardly to reach the phone. Ron ends up doing it as he’s closer, and Harry taps his foot impatiently as the cool, tinny female voice asks them what they’re up to.

Their badges say RESCUE MISSION.

The phone box shudders, and without warning they go falling downwards. The pavement disappears, as do the thestrals, and when the grilles open to let them out, they burst into the Atrium. It’s empty and quiet, save for the water of the fountain.

“Come on,” says Harry. He supposes there ought to be some security, but nobody so much as cries for them to halt.

The path to that familiar corridor is exactly as it had been in his dream-visions. The black door appears at the end and it opens as soon as Harry is within five feet of it. He keeps _waiting_ for someone to stop them, to call them back and arrest them for trespassing, but nothing of the sort happens.

The room is dark, oppressive.

To their dismay, the walls move as soon as Malfoy shuts the door behind him. Without the lights from the corridor, they can see little. Salah casts _Lumos_ , and the others follow suit. Harry can’t tell which door they’d come through.

“What now?” asks Neville.

Many doors face them, all of them wrong. Occluded as he is, Harry can still feel it, but still they have to try. The first room contains brains, which is not something Harry wants to dwell upon. The second room contains an archway that pushes against Harry’s mind, so he shuts the door before anyone else makes it inside.

“ _Flagrate_ ,” Luna whispers after every door. She draws an X against the wood. Every time the walls turn their circle, they still know where they’ve gone.

“Good thinking,” says Hermione.

Harry pushes the next door open without thinking. What greets him is a room filled with blue-white light, something like a starry sky. “This is it! This way.”

Here they keep their wands out. Another door leads them to the hall, the one where all the baubles sit, waiting. Out there, one of them is labelled with Harry’s name. Anxiety fills the air now; at any moment, they could expect an attack.

“Hey, Harry,” Ron calls in a whisper. “I’ve found the one with your name on it.”

The others move aside, and there it is. _S.P.T. to A.P.W.B.D., CONCERNING TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE AND (?) HARRY POTTER._

"They must have added your name later," Hermione whispers. "They didn't know immediately, which begs the question..."

It’s then that Harry is certain this is a trap. What he’d seen during the History exam had had their names reversed, Voldemort’s birth name hadn’t been listen, and there had been no other inscription—S.P.T? That means nothing, but whatever it is…

“Harry,” Salah murmurs. “Whatever you do, Occlude. Occlude now, and don’t touch that.”

Despite her warning and the fact that he has already Occluded, Harry reaches for the shiny little bauble. It’s _his_ , somehow, only _he_ can touch it. Others tell him to stop, but he’s already got his fingers around the crystal. Then he’s got it in his hands, and nothing horrid has happened; they’re all still alive, limbs attached.

“Very good, Potter,” a voice behind him drawls. “Now hand it over.”

Black figures stand around them. Malfoy lets out a strained little sound; despite the hoods, despite the terrible masks, he no doubt recognises his own father’s voice. Lucius Malfoy and the other Death Eaters have their wands pointed at their hearts.

“Hand it over,” Lucius says again, “or we shall have to use our wands.”

“Try it, then,” says Harry, defiant. If Voldemort wants this little prize, he’ll have to take it from Harry’s cold, dead hands, and Harry does have a way of surviving the worst. Lucius Malfoy knows this all too well.

A high, maniacal laughter comes from the person next to Lucius. She grabs Salah, who remains calm for all that a seeming madwoman has her in her black-nailed grasp.

“We can start with this one,” says the woman “She’s a pretty little thing. Do you think she’ll scream for it? I want to make her scream.”

No one moves. By inches, Neville, Ginny and the twins move closer to Harry. Ron and Hermione are already at his back, but Malfoy won’t move. He’s grabbed Luna’s arm, and his frightened eyes are glued to Salah.

“The prophecy, Potter,” Lucius insists. “To me!”

Harry doesn’t even twitch. He’d brought his friends here, and he will get them out. He just needs a way to do that, and with Salah in a Death Eater’s grasp, he’s not so certain what his next move should be.

The one who’s got Salah presses her wand to Salah’s temple, keen for the kill. Then, suddenly, Salah relaxes completely. Her expression goes blank, and she stares right through Harry as if he were a ghost, perhaps not even really there.

“You know, Bellatrix,” she says, “you ought choose your prey more carefully.”

Bellatrix Lestrange—Neville gasps, but a moment later it’s drowned out by Bellatrix’s screech of pain. Salah is away in a flurry of robes and green fire, and in the resulting chaos, Harry shouts, “Run!”

They surge forward all at once, and in their hurry they smash a few crystals. Harry, noticing the sudden influx of light and noise, aims his wand at a shelf and yells, “ _Reducto!”_

The sounds of breaking glass is unholy, but it gives the others the right idea. As they run, they smash as much as they can. Salah, who had re-appeared out of thin air, casts a large shield behind them. As they exit the room, she lags, sets the room aflame. She sprints into the room after them and shuts the door.

“Did you apparate?” Hermione asks, “Within the Ministry?”

“[Realmente es pertinente saberlo ahora?](-)” Salah says. She turns to Harry. “[Porque ](-) [ _coño_ ](-) [ no me hiciste caso? Muevanse!](-)”

At her last, they all sprint on to the next door. As they close it, the Death Eaters burst through the first door. They run through many doors before they think to stop again. None of them knows which way they had come from, which way they had gone, and which way is left to go. They have to find a way out.

“Oh for the love of,” says Salah. She holds her arms stretched out above her head and brings them back to her in a sharp movement. In the next moment, all the doors blow open. The room shudders, but the door ahead of them leads to the corridor.

“What—” says Hermione, but Ron pulls her along.

Salah stays behind to see all of them through. Behind them, the Death Eaters approach with great speed, so Harry throws a _Stupify_ their way for good measure. Salah slams the door shut and takes him by the arm.

They stream into the Atrium, Death Eaters hot on their trail.

There, a group waits for them—Sirius, Tonks, Kingsley, Remus, Moody, and Professor Oswin. Harry’s group ducks—he sees Salah disappear again, her form twisting and whirling into green fire—someone, likely Tonks given the voice, casts _Stupefy_ on the Death Eaters behind them.

Chaos erupts like an unseen fire. Lucius Malfoy shrieks continuously not to harm Potter, not to harm the prophecy—it’s funny because Harry and the prophecy currently occupy the same space, and if he just _slips…_

Neville gets hit in the nose but survives it, the Weasley twins have each other’s backs. Harry pushes Malfoy—Draco in Sirius’ direction and then stands between them and Lucius. Sirius sends the elder Malfoy to the floor with a well-aimed _Impedimentia._

Sirius ducks out of the way of Bellatrix’s spell. “Come on, you can do better than that, you hag!” and then Salah appears behind Dolohov and stabs the man without any hint of mercy or remorse.

Hermione had been right, of course. Salah had let Harry off easy; she hadn’t even shown her true skill in the duel with Professor Oswin. She seems a different person now—powerful, focussed, _older_. She takes the Death Eaters by storm; Malfoy Sr flies halfway across the room, a corpulent Death Eater goes in the opposite direction. Several screams break through from different sides of the room, and it’s like Salah dances in blood and lightning, no spell ever seems to hit her whilst she moves, whirls—

—Professor Oswin is at her back and then he is not. Salah pushes Harry out of the way of a spell when a dark shadow appears at Harry’s back. A moment later, when he casts the disarming charm, she is gone, and in the next Remus has his back.

Between them, they keep Harry moving, a difficult target. The only reason Harry can even keep track of Salah’s movements is because of the green flames she leaves in her wake, because of the red mane of hair that often accompanies her like a secondary shadow—or is she the secondary shadow? They work so well together, like a well-oiled, well-kept machine.

Sirius is ahead, facing his erstwhile, crazed cousin. Bellatrix laughs and hits Sirius in the chest. Salah whirls around so fast she seems like some sort of apparition, smoking and quick, almost fluid in her motions, and then it’s Bellatrix she’s stabbing.

“Sirius!” Harry calls. Remus grabs him, and as much as Harry struggles, he can’t get to his other godfather.

He still has the prophecy in his hand. Too shocked to do anything, he watches Salah raise hell in the Atrium, picking off Death Eaters one by one. Only Professor Oswin can keep pace with her.

Neville tugs at Harry’s sleeve. “Dubbledore.”

“Wh—”

The Death Eaters are fleeing. Salah won’t let them; she pulls them back, blocks their path—everywhere at once. Dumbledore appears in many places, a flash of light, battle-ready. He is an over-bright, whirling spot in the fray, and Harry freezes in place at the sight of him, grey hair and  almost luminescent clothes.

Salah appears next to Harry, face blank. “Give me the prophecy.”

She speaks with such authority, Harry doesn’t even hesitate. She takes it, looks at it, and then lets it go. It splinters over the entire floor, spreading, spreading, and the mist settles around their feet. Dumbledore turns their way—  

‘ _The one who will defeat the dark lord—’_ Salah waves her hand, and the smoke disappears. Harry looks at her in anger, but she remains unmoving, untouched, chin held high. He sees then, really sees, that she is much older than she’d been before, especially around her eyes.

And his scar _burns._

Bellatrix bursts out in laughter where she lays. She must be bleeding out, but clearly not fast enough. Harry goes to his knees, the pain taking over—  

“Occlude,” Salah whispers in his ear, “Harry, Occlude.”

He shuts down his mind, but his eyes remain wide open. There across the hall, stands his greatest enemy—tall, thin, dressed in black, the snake-like features that set him apart as something other than human.

Salah moves forward with confident steps. She spreads out her arms and in them holds green fire. Voldemort watches her with narrowed eyes.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“ _Your greatest nightmare,_ ” she hisses.

 _She hissed,_ Harry’s mind tells him, as if it’s significant. _Parselmouth,_ he realises belatedly. _Parselmouth._

Voldemort doesn’t even have time to deal with this revelation properly. The fires in Salah’s hands spread to her arms, then devour her entire body. She grows into something great and terrifying—a dragon made of flames, the spectre of it towering above them,  and she lashes out at Voldemort with no remorse at all.

And he screams.

Death Eaters, rounded up at the tip of Dumbledore’s wand, stop in their throes. Their lord and master shrieks in pain before someone tries to hex Salah, but as before with the duel, she bats it away—furious, flames whirling around her like a helix. It does give Voldemort the fraction of a second necessary to recover, and Salah no longer burns, but there is fire in her eyes.

They watch the duel, mesmerised. Voldemort sends jet after jet of green light, but Salah waves them away  as if they are nothing but irritant flies. They whizz back past Voldemort’s ears, and his fury grows with each deflection, each spell that Salah returns to him.

Aurors fill the room. It makes Voldemort roar, which startles the new arrivals into a foolish stupor. Voldemort twists away, disappears—  

“Harry!” Salah shrieks.

He doesn’t understand her concern. His scar tears open.

For a moment he’s in a class, lecturing about potions. It shatters, and he’s in the maze, running. A black cloud follows at his heels, but Harry weaves through the infinity of his maze with ease; he knows this, he’s practiced this. They can run for—

A whole in the hedge sends him hurtling—

Harry opens his mouth, but it’s not his voice, “ _Kill me now, Dumbledore_.”

But it’s not the headmaster who he looks at. Salah holds his face between her hands, her eyes wide in worry. Professor Oswin looms behind her, wand pointed at Harry. Dumbledore is not far behind, but he does not brandish his wand.

“Harry,” Salah says, urgent, “look at me. Look at me!”

His eyes go to her, unwilling. Voldemort screams, but Salah is already in Harry’s mind; she knows it better than the parasite that Voldemort is. She’s seen the core of him, she’d taught him how to fight this, to push out and—

Harry gasps. Sound comes rushing back to his ears—the Atrium full of people, the Death Eaters rounded up, and Minister Cornelius Fudge with big round eyes, face pallid, almost green.

“He’s back,” Minister Fudge says, “He really is back.”

Something cold settles in Salah’s features. “Stay here,” she tells Harry. “Everyone’s fine; I’ll make sure they give Sirius Black the help he needs.”

Then she stands, and not even Dumbledore can stop her as she marches up to the Minister of Magic. In fact, Dumbledore follows her. Minister Fudge doesn’t even see them approach; he’s too busy having a panicked fit.

Professor Oswin helps Harry sit up. He quickly gathers around the other students, herds them together and checks their wounds. Hermione is unconscious, and Malfoy has a mean gash across his cheek. Ron doesn’t seem to be quite there with his head, Neville has a broken nose. Ginny seems all right but for a broken ankle, and breathes shallowly. The twins hold each other up and are then ordered to sit.

“How can it be!” Fudge calls out. “Him! Here! In the Ministry—here! How—”

“I’ve a bone to pick with you.” Salah’s voice is low, dangerous, resonating.

Fudge lets out a pathetic little _meep_. “You!”

“Me.” She stops before him. She’s actually the shortest there, and yet somehow manages to appear as imposing as a dark tower. “And you. You have been a thorn in my side for months. First you send that impossible, presumptuous _bitch_ to my school, then you think you can manhandle me, _assault me_ , in the halls that _I_ raised from the ground, and now you stand here, the blithering _fool_ that you are—”

Fudge does his best impression of being taller, fails. At Salah’s side, Dumbledore looks surprised, then pensive. She pays neither any mind.

“—and if you think I have any respect for you, well, then you are in for the surprise of a lifetime.” She pauses for breath. “Winky. Dearheart, come to me.”

Winky appears with a little plop. Today she has a ribbon tied around her head; it’s yellow and manages to make her look cute. “I have brought the rat, mistress.”

“Oh, darling, you’ve made my day.” Salah takes the offered rat—  

Ron gasps. Harry almost can’t _breathe_ —  

At Salah’s whisper the rat begins to grow. She drops it, casts incarcerous, and once the rat is full-grown, it becomes none other than—

“Peter Pettigrew,” a man standing near Minister Fudge says. “You’re supposed to be dead. Arrested Sirius Black for that one.”

“Quite right, Dawlish,” says Dumbledore. “It seems you were mistaken.”

Before Dawlish can say anything to accompany his black glare, Fudge, now bright purple, turns all of his new-found aggravation at Salah. “Who. Are. You.”

“Winky, please do introduce me.”  
  
The elf stands straighter. “I is pleased to introduce Marchioness Salah Alaia Zaahir of the noble Casa Serpentina, Countess of a hidden county, Emerald Dragon, and Founder of Hogwarts.”   
  
“Thank you, dear.”   
  
Fudge looks faint. And perhaps also green now, rather than purple. “Founder of—” he uses a handkerchief to wipe away sweat, not that it does him any good.   
  
“Hogwarts, yes,” Salah says patiently. “People have taken to calling me Salazar Slytherin.”   
  
All of the air leaves the room.


	16. The Founder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the battle for the prophecy behind them, it's time for truth, honesty, and transparency.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early chapter! Because tomorrow hates me and I'm likely to forget to post anything whilst i lay face down on my bed, recovering from how early i have to wake. Cheers.

The only sound left in the Atrium is Wormtail’s nails as he tries to scurry away. Harry, who had remembered how to breathe has now forgotten again, and Professor Oswin has to urge him back into the process. At some point, Hermione had returned to the waking world, and so now she gapes at the scene before them, unable to formulate a single sentence.

“N-nonsense,” says Fudge. “Impossible! Nonsense!”

“Is this true, Winky,” Dumbledore asks with the calm and composure their Minister can’t seem to conjure.

As if she were in a trance, Winky looks at the headmaster with large, bulbous eyes. “Yes, Master Dumbledore.”

“House Elves can’t lie to their masters,” Hermione mutters. Professor Oswin shoots her a wry look.

“Lies!” Fudge seems close to shrieking, and he’s gone an ugly puce.

“Oh, don’t waste my time with your blubbering,” Salah says. “Here is Peter Pettigrew. You’ll want to review Sirius Black’s arrest. Black will be under my custody until further notice, and if I don’t see an article on his innocence by the end of the weekend, I will sue.” She levels Dawlish with a look. “Any whiff of another miscarriage of justice, and I will have your collective heads on a platter.

Fudge splutters. “You can’t order—” he’s silenced with a look from Salah.

By this time, several reporters have appeared. No doubt exists in Harry’s mind that the one thing to overshadow Sirius’ stated innocence in the papers would be the revelation of a living Founder.

“We’re going back to Hogwarts.” Salah stalks back towards where Professor Oswin watches over them. Dumbledore gives a little wave to Fudge and the Aurors, then tries to get Salah’s attention.

“May I have a word wi—”

“No,” she says flatly. “My priority is the children.”

“Of course.”

“Now see here, Dumbledore,” Fudge calls. Salah rolls her eyes. “You can’t just barge in here—”

“Deal with him,” Salah growls, “or I will.”

Dumbledore looks at her over his half-moon glasses, says nothing. He turns back to the minister and says, “I will give you half an hour of my time tonight, Cornelius. After that, you can address your letters to me, if you require my help.”

Harry doesn’t hear the response. Salah has made a portkey from some debris lying about, and then they are whisked away, twirling—  

The Hogwarts Infirmary. Madam Pomfrey has the life scared out of her, but suddenly her razor-sharp focus is on them, the injured. She quickly has them lain in their separate beds, and Professor Oswin helps her with the diagnostic spells.

Salah collapses unto the ground.

Professor Oswin whirls around so fast it’s like he has a sixth sense. Harry sits up and finds Luna, too, stares at the vulnerable, crumpled shape on the floor. Madam Pomfrey is there almost in the blink of an eye.

“She still breathes,” Madam Pomfrey says. She quickly casts a spell. “Poor dear, she’s absolutely exhausted, drained, and—Oh...oh, dear…”

“What,” Professor Oswin snaps. Harry has never seen the man look so authorative; he could well bite the Matron’s head off.

“Well, you seem to know how to read these,” Madam Pomfrey says delicately, “if you look closer right here…”

As they’re hunched over Salah, Harry can’t see what they look at. A sharp intake of breath from their Defence teacher tells him it’s something dire, or at least not something expected.

The careful way that Professor Oswin holds Salah rankles in Harry’s mind. It’s a puzzle piece along with how smoothly they had fought, side by side, with the ease that they had duelled in class, holding back just enough as to not injure anyone around them. The battle at the ministry had been different; they’d aimed to hurt anything and everything. Here, now, Professor Oswin brushes a stray curl from Salah’s forehead as if she were the sweetest, most vulnerable creature he has ever had to honour to touch.

Madam Pomfrey exhales quietly. “Am I right to assume—”

“Yes,” Professor Oswin says sharply. His shoulders are hunched.

“Help me get her unto the bed, won’t you, dear?” Madam Pomfrey says. “We’ll have a good look at her there. The students seem fine; I’ll have them back to their proper selves in no time.”

They carry Salah away, to a corner where Harry can’t hear them. He exchanges a look with Hermione, who has been put on his left; whatever’s going on, he’d like to get a grip on it.

“Do you reckon she was telling the truth,” he asks her, “about being—”

“House elves can’t lie,” Hermione tells him again. He finds no comfort in that.

***

They are discharged the next day, their wounds healed, bones set, and blood replenished. Salah is not so lucky; she is very much awake, thoroughly annoyed, and will be stuck in the infirmary for the next week or so, as per Madam Pomfrey’s orders.

Harry is glad to leave. He should get some sort of award for having avoided the infirmary for most of the year, but no one seems inclined to congratulate him on this new feat. It’s insulting.

Of course, when they’re out and about, they’re immediately encircled, questioned. The students demand to know what had happened, because now everybody knows Voldemort is back, everyone _believes_ it; it’s the part about Salazar Slytherin himself appearing is what they’re really after.

“We don’t know, all right?” Harry says, exasperated.

“A House Elf confirmed it,” Hermione says plainly. “They can’t lie to their masters. So if Winky introduced Salah Zaahir as a Founder…”

It all sounds so reasonable when Hermione puts it like that, especially as he can nearly hear how ‘Salazar’ had sprung from Salah Zaahir. It’s the Slytherin bit that’s confusing, but then she _had_ revealed herself to be a Parselmouth.

But it’s all too exhausting, and all Harry wants to do is hide away. He steals away to the Come and Go Room only to find that Malfoy’s had the same idea.

“This is my spot,” Malfoy protests. “I found it first.”

His objection is futile. Harry won’t move even if a thousand erumpents were to appear in that exact moment, and he’s got in on good authority they’re not native to the cold and cloudy England. The continent of Africa is more their style.

They stay there for at least half a day. Dobby brings them meals, and Malfoy conjures entertainment in the form of blank-paged books and a host of colouring pencils. Harry, already mesmerised by everything that Malfoy has grown to become, is delighted to see him draw—birds, trees, flowers, his friends, Harry’s smiling f—  

Malfoy bats Harry’s hands away as he looks through some old drawings. “Hasn’t anyone taught you not to snoop, Potter?” but Harry can’t even mind, because the tone is light, and Malfoy had drawn him.

“You’ve changed,” Harry says. When Malfoy quirks his brow, he quickly adds, “For the better! I like this new you.”

For a moment, it seems Malfoy won’t react. He continues on sketching, eyes never straying from the paper. Then, quietly, “I both have and have not changed, I suppose. After Salah’s...eloquent humiliations, I made time to reevaluate. And so I came to the conclusion that I found myself in a rather ugly place, one that would likely send me down a path I do not want.”

Finally, he looks up at Harry, face serious. “I owled my mother and told her what Salah had said, told her about the conclusions I had come to. Particularly that blood purity does not seem to matter, and that more often than not it ruins families, birthing unhealthy children who only suffer. I trusted her, at least, to understand. My father only wants a perfect heir, not a loving, flawed son; he wouldn’t understand. Mother agreed with me.”

Harry sucks in a breath. “So that’s why you signed the letter with both her and your regards? She meant that.”

“Of course she did.” Malfoy laughs. “My mother rarely does anything she does not mean to do. And that, really...it gave me the courage to be just me. Just Draco. Not the Malfoy scion, not my father’s duplicate. I’m glad for it too; I’d never have become friends with you otherwise.”

A twin feeling of elation and anxiety makes home in Harry’s stomach. If Malfoy had indeed not come to this realisation, Harry would never have looked at him and thought him handsome, nor would he have ever gotten to know this side of Malfoy. Not that the snide, petty side of Malfoy has disappeared, but it comes with a softer, more introspective half, and that just makes him _interesting._

But if they are just friends, that meant Harry doesn’t stand a chance, does he? Unless being friends would eventually lead to something more—not that Harry can even begin to speculate on how he would approach such a thing.

Sometime in the late afternoon, Winky informs them that Salah is awake again and wishes to speak to them.

“Mistress is being under orders to remain in bed,” Winky whispers to them. “She can’t be getting upset. It is being bad.”

Uncertain how that could be so bad, Harry shrugs. “I’ll go if you go,” he tells Malfoy.

“How absolutely charming, Potter,” says Malfoy. “Let’s hear it then.”

What they don’t expect is for the entrance to the infirmary to be clogged by nosy students, mostly the younger years, who have not grown wise yet to Madam Pomfrey’s ire. Winky bats them away, Malfoy glares them down, still less snide and cold than he had previously been. Harry simply ignores the lot. He’s not here for them.

Salah remains at the very end of the ward. Professor Oswin isn’t there, which surprises Harry for a reason he can’t pin down. It doesn’t matter.

“Hello,” Salah says. She looks to be just fine, bright-eyed and neutral-faced. “Nice of you to have come so quickly.”

“There’s no need to dally, is there?” says Malfoy.

“No,” she replies. “I’ve already spoken to the others in the morning, so we shan’t be waiting for anyone else. Sit, if you please.”

Malfoy takes the chair. Left with no other choice, Harry sits at the foot of the bed, Salah has crossed her legs in front of her, so Harry does the same. He’s not afraid to face her, whoever she may be.

“Hm,” she says quietly. “You may be under the impression that I’ve lied to you. I have not. Everything you learnt about me in the past year is true. Certainly more so than whatever your history books have told you.”

“So,” Harry says, “You really are...Salazar Slytherin.”

“No,” she says. “Of course I am not. Slytherin is a myth, a fiction. It’s a tall tale told by idiots who have never even met me. If they had, they’d have known better than to say and write the things they did. Slytherin was created to fit a certain narrative that would benefit the few who wished to espouse a certain...ideology.”

“Purebloods,” Malfoy murmurs. “You’re talking about Purebloods.

“That’s how it started, yes.” She inhales, releases it. “Now, I will tell the entire school this, because they deserve to know. I am not whatever figment of a White man people believe I am, and I will never be so.”

“You said you never lied,” Harry says, “but you never told us the truth either.”

“Oh, Potter, you fool,” Malfoy mutters.

Salah raises a brow, her eyes never straying from where they take in Harry. “Aside from my true age and relation to Hogwarts, I have told you exactly who I am. I have lived more of my truth in this single school-year than you have ever been told. I did not wish for anyone’s impression of me be influenced by how my person has been warped into an ugly legend. That is _not_ my truth.”

Suddenly, Harry understands. The _Prophet_ has spent nearly a year painting him as a raving madman, but look at them now. He’d caught sight of a morning edition earlier, and both the Ministry and the papers who had descredited him have had to eat their own words, if not directly apologise to him. Not that they have. Apologised.

He can’t imagine what a thousand years of that would do to a person.

“Voldemort is your heir,” Harry says glumly. “He opened the Chamber of Secrets.”

“The— _what?_ ” Salah looks nonplussed. “You mean the wing where I left Adorada? That’s what they called it? Oh dear…” she keeps in her laughter, just about. “But Tom Riddle is not my heir. He’s an offshoot from a bastard in my brother’s line.”

“That...can’t sit well with him,” Malfoy remarks.

“Oh, he doesn’t know, I reckon,” Salah says, “Thinks himself the real deal, you see. I intend to tell him personally, that I did not conceive his line. Of course, publishing it in a paper also has a certain appeal...Do you think he’ll melt? Perish on the spot?”

Malfoy laughs with relish, and Harry finds it easy to join him.

Things settle between them then. Harry leaves the infirmary in a better mood than he’s been since the fiasco at the Ministry. He hasn’t even seen Sirius, but Salah has assured him that his godfather is safe at St Mungo’s, which is where both Remus and Professor Oswin are at right this moment.

Malfoy stops at the doors of the Great Hall. He takes one look at the Slytherin table and says, “Do you reckon the Gryffindors will tear me apart?”

“No,” Harry says.

“Good.” Malfoy strides past him to the Gryffindor table. Harry laughs and follows after him; of course Malfoy opts to sit between him and Ginny, who gives everyone a look of warning. She hadn’t needed to; everybody knows Malfoy had gone with them.

“Harry!”

Cho hurries along towards him. Behind her, sitting at the Ravenclaw table, Marietta seems displeased, and maybe she should damn well get the courage to ask Cho out. Not Harry’s problem at the moment.

“I’m so glad you’re all right,” and Cho envelops him in a hug, briefly. “I was so worried when Zaahir sent me to find Professor Oswin—so out of the blue, and she said you were off to the Ministry…”

“So that’s why she lagged behind,” Malfoy says. His face has gone blank, and he doesn’t quite look at Cho.

“Yeah. I’m glad you’re safe,” she says. To Malfoy, “Even you.”

To his credit, Malfoy’s eyebrows shoot up and stay that way until Cho says goodbye and goes back to her table. Harry grins at him; it’s like Malfoy has been _Stupefied._

“So,” says Malfoy conversationally, “You and Chang…”

“Friends,” Harry says breezily.

After that, Harry’s day can’t possibly go wrong. There’s little left of it regardless; he’ll see Malfoy tomorrow and maybe, just maybe, he can work up the courage to just _ask_. A niggling bit of fear tells him Malfoy will say no, but he can’t be sure of that until he tries, now can he?

The very next morning, at breakfast, Professor Oswin comes by. Harry’s to go up with him to the headmaster’s office. Oswin seems anything but happy, which about sets the mood for the rest of Harry’s day, of not at least his morning.

He has to trot a little to keep up with Professor Oswin and his long legs. “Aren’t you supposed to be guarding Sirius?”

“Kingsley and Dawlish took over,” Professor Oswin says brusquely. He is really in a mood, it seems.

In a more conversational tone, Harry tries, “And how is Salah?”

Professor Oswin snorts. “About to have a grand day, I’d say.”

They arrive at the gargoyle who, in an unprecedented move, jumps aside. Too surprised to say anything, Harry follows Professor Oswin into the office, where it seems the entire Order of the Phoenix has exploded. Certainly the room seems bigger, expanded to fit all of them. Kingsley is the only one missing, though accounted for.

Salah is there, too. She doesn’t seem at all like someone who collapsed from exhaustion just a day ago, in fact, if Harry hadn’t know any better, he’d say she’d never even had a fit of any sort.

“Ah, Harry,” says Dumbledore, “glad you could join us.” As if Harry had had any choice in the matter. “Thank you, Harold.”

“Is this wise, Albus?” Mrs Weasley asks. “He’s just a boy—”

Harry decides right then to Occlude. This is going to be exhausting and supremely irritating, and the day’s hardly begun.

“He’s a boy who’s had his fair share of traumatic experiences,” says Salah. “Leaving him out of this discussion is dangerous and foolish.”

This ruffles more than a few feathers, none more than Mrs Weasley’s. Much as Harry appreciates her concern and mothering instincts, he doesn’t like the coddling.

He looks just to his side and—

It’s good he’s Occluded. It’s like Bellatrix Lestrange stares back at him, if she were still beautiful and regal, rather than crazed and fallen apart. Next to the woman sits Tonks, who now that Harry looks, bears a striking resemblance to the woman.

She notices his regard, bows her head. He looks away after a second.

Salah is in an argument with Moody. “None of you can even take him head on, yet you expect Harry, an untrained _child_ to manage this feat. Without the proper education, might I add, because the standards of this school have fallen _dramatically_ —”

“We’re not here to discuss Hogwarts, Marchioness,” Dumbledore says sharply.

“Oh, I’ll get to that yet,” Salah says, resolute, “because clearly you expect your shoddy education to produce warriors, or else you’re sending Harry to be slaughtered.”

“How dare—” Mrs Weasley starts.

“I open my mouth,” Salah says, “and it just—comes out.” she then returns to Dumbledore. “So, tell me, which is it? Not once this year did you _bother_ to explain to Harry what was happening, not once did you even speak to him directly. Is he supposed to trust you like that?”

For a moment, it looks as if Dumbledore won’t answer. Then, “I do not intend for Harry to be slaughtered. As of yet, Voldemort has not managed to kill Harry.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Professor Oswin remarks.

“As I recall,” Salah says with more calm than Harry can imagine someone can muster so quickly, “Voldemort does not fear a fifteen year old child as much as he fears a magician who has lived long enough to see him grow. And between you, I, and Harry, I’d wager I’ve the better chance to tear Voldemort down.”

“Why didn’t you kill him, then?” asks Moody. “Plenty of chance you had there.”

Salah zeroes in on him like a hawk. “Are you trying to prove my sympathies to Voldemort? Please. I cannot kill him.” She looks sharply at Dumbledore. “Nobody can. Believe me, if it were that easy, I would have slit his throat long ago.”

Harry rather likes the imagery. It would have solved about 99 of his problems, too.

After a deep breath, Salah continues, “Tom Riddle has fragmented his soul, put them into objects, and hidden them away. The diary has been accounted for and destroyed. We suspect at least one other, and he’s likely made more. Until we find them all, he remains virtually immortal. I find it questionable that you are so eager to throw a boy at such a monster.”

The lady next to Tonks looks ashen. “That he would do such a thing—no, even my mother would think it vile.” She shakes her head slightly.

Moody grunts. “So that is why we need the boy—”

“No.” Professor Oswin glares down at Moody from where he stands next to Salah, arms folded. Then his eyes go to Dumbledore. “I agree with Miss Zaahir. Potter is a boy—young, untrained, vulnerable. Even after a year under my tutelage, with all the improvement that came along—how can you think he is the only way? You treat him like a weapon. Do you know what it means to turn a child into a murderer?”

The silence is heavy. Salah’s hand briefly goes to Professor Oswin’s back; the touch seems almost intimate for all of the two seconds it lasts.

Strangely, they stand as a united front. They hadn’t seemed to like each other very much during Defence, not that they had _stated_ any dislike, they’d just seemed endlessly amused with irritating the other...

Mrs Weasley says, “Nobody has said anything about turning Harry into—”

“No, but he’s been told nothing, has he?” says Salah. “You can tell others some bullshit about keeping the information from Harry to keep it from Voldemort, but there has been no proof Voldemort knew about the connection until the mess at the Ministry. Even had there been a risk, it’s supremely idiotic to keep Harry in the dark when it’s his life you are willing to risk to defeat a madman who believes himself to be all-powerful.”

“Moreover,” Professor Oswin asks, “if you’d been so afraid of Harry posing a threat to your security, you’d not have brought him directly to your headquarters. That’s just irresponsible on many counts.”

They all look at Dumbledore, who has remained absolutely silent throughout the critique. Harry is not sure what to think of all this; laid bare, it seems incomprehensible how any of the mess had been left to unfold. If Dumbledore had known about these soul fragments the entire time—and he must have, because why else had he not seemed surprised when Salah had told the Order just now? Why hide such a thing when it’s of such vital importance to everyone fighting against Voldemort.

“How long,” Dumbledore says at last, “have you been a spy, Harold Oswin? If that is even your true name.”

Professor Oswin grins mirthlessly, all teeth and bright green eyes without the laughter lines. “It is my name. Part of it anyway.”

Then Dumbledore looks at Salah, who doesn’t even bother to feign innocence. “Me? Use my husband as a spy? It’s more likely than you think.”

“But don’t deflect,” says Professor Oswin. “This is about your choices.”

The headmaster sighs. “I did what I could. I did what I thought was right.”

“And no one could have asked for more,” says Mrs Weasley, resolute. Harry finds her steadfast support of Dumbledore touching, if I bit...misguided. He’s kept secrets from her; doesn’t that merit at least a sliver of doubt?

Neither Salah nor Professor Oswin say anything. Professor Oswin looks at Salah, head inclined, but she shakes her head. Whatever that means, it ends there, with their silence intact.

Dumbledore takes over the meeting with ease. “Well, then, we must pick up the work quickly. Remus has an in with the werewolves, so he’ll be off to join them shortly. Someone must stay by Sirius’ side at St. Mungo’s—Oh, thank you, Nymphadora.” Then, to Harry’s absolute dismay, the headmaster says, “Harry will be returned to his aunt and uncle for the su—”

“Absolutely not,” says Professor Oswin.

“You think to send him back to his abusers,” Salah says, voice flat.

 _I’m right here_ , thinks Harry, and he says, “I won’t go back to the Dursleys.”

“Harry,” Dumbledore says softly, “You’re safest there—”

“Safest?” Salah says in cold fury. Harry has never seen her like that, eyes so bright, teeth bared. “If he had ever been safe in that house, they would not have been able to starve him, to hit him, to lock him away in a cupboard for nearly twelve years. Petunia Dursley-Evans would not have been able to hit her nephew so hard with a pan that his eyesight was irreparably damaged. Don’t you dare talk about safety when that house is filled with misery.”

She’d been in his head, Harry realises belatedly. She’s seen his memories, the nightmares, the pain and anguish at the hands of people who could never love him.

“But where will he go?” Remus asks. “We can’t hide him forever.”

Before Mrs Weasley can open her mouth, Salah says, “We’ll take him.” If she feels any heat from Mrs Weasley’s glare, she doesn’t show it.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Mrs Weasley, “Harry can’t stay with—with the likes—”

“I’ll go with them,” Harry says.

It stops everyone immediately. Mrs Weasley looks at him, betrayed, but Harry has made his choice and stands by it. For all that he had not known Salah to be Salazar Slytherin herself, nor does he know who Professor Oswin is, they have been the most honest with him. In the fifteen, nearly sixteen years of his life, no one has cared to speak so plainly. He trusts that.

“I can’t in good conscious send him away with you,” says Dumbledore.

“Then don’t,” Salah says. She looks around the room for any other protestors, but nobody dares. “Then it’s settled. He goes with us.”

Dumbledore sighs heavily. “May I speak with him? In private.”

Salah looks to Harry. It’s his choice, which for once is terrible, because he wants to go away and be alone with his thoughts. This isn’t how the day was supposed to go. He nods, checks his mental walls. They’re intact.

The others shuffle out of the office. Salah casts a last look at Dumbledore, and says, “If I’m needed, call for Winky.” The headmaster nods.

Harry takes seat in front of the headmaster’s desk. They stare at each other in silence for several minutes, and Harry settles neatly into the fold of him mind. The tiny intrusion comes as a surprise, but Harry does not react, simply breaks eye-contact. The sting of betrayal doesn’t go away with it.

“You have been taught well,” Dumbledore says. “I must remember to thank Professor Snape for his work; he’d been reluctant.”

At the lack of response, Dumbledore sighs. He offers Harry a lemon drop, which Harry takes if only to _do_ something; in his mind he goes over his fifth lesson plan.

“I owe you an explanation, Harry,” says Dumbledore. “I have failed you every time I have kept things to myself.” He then tells Harry things he already knows—about the scar, the connection to Voldemort, how Voldemort might seek to use it, _him_ …

...That Dumbledore had thought not to teach Harry Occlumency himself in fear that Voldemort may use their connection to destroy Harry. That’s new, but Harry supposes it’s not so far-fetched; it’s exactly what Voldemort had done as soon as Dumbledore had been near enough.

“Now Voldemort has been obsessed for months,” says Dumbledore, “with hearing the prophecy concerning the two of you. He had discovered, of course, that the only ones who could touch it, even retrieve it, are those whom the prophecy concerns. And here I must tell you something I ought have five years ago, Harry…”

“You see, the night your parents died,” he pauses, “the night your mother sacrificed her life to protect you, she cast a powerful spell. This spell—this protection, flows through your veins still. I’ve put my trust in your mother’s blood, and thus sent you to her only remaining relative—her sister.”

Bitter, Harry says, “She doesn’t care. She’s never loved me.”

“But she took you in,” Dumbledore says. “Unwillingly, grudgingly, she still took you in. And so long as you have a home there, you have your mother’s protection. So I beseech you, reconsider. You cannot go with strangers—”

Sharply, “Salah’s not a stranger. She has done more for me this past year than you, or even my aunt, has cared to.” Harry almost tells the headmaster about the Occlumency lessons, the extra ones, but bites his tongue.

“But do you know her Harry, truly?” Dumbledore insists. “Do you know who—or what, she is? Do any of us?”

“With respect, headmaster,” Harry says dryly, “Do I know you? Do any of us, really?”

It quiets Dumbledore for a good while. Harry has time to think—if his mother’s magic protects him, why had it not stopped the abuses? How come he has not been safe since he had been unceremoniously dropped on the front door of Privet Drive number 4?

Certainly, Voldemort had not been able to touch him. _Until last year,_ Harry thinks, when he’d come back.

“I see,” Dumbledore says. Harry quickly checks his shields, but they are untouched. “I see I have made many mistakes, in my old age. I have been negligent.” After a pause, he asks, “Do you remember, Harry, in your first year—you asked why Voldemort had tried to kill you as a baby.”

Harry nods, alert.

“Ought I not have told you then? But you were too young, I thought,” says Dumbledore, and that was another mistake. And so the years went on, and with every one that passed, you triumphed again and again, and I told myself you were yet too young, too much a child to carry the burden…”

Quite out of patience now, Harry says, “With respect, what is the point of this?” He’s not here to listen to an old man’s admittance of guilt; it’s making his shields rattle.

Dumbledore looks right at him. “Shortly before your birth, a prophecy was made. Voldemort, when he heard this, set out to kill you, believing this to fulfill the terms of the prophecy. He failed. Once he returned, he was determined to hear the entirety of the prophecy, determined that it would tell him how to destroy you.”

“She smashed it,” Harry says numbly. “Salah smashed it.”

“Yes,” says Dumbledore, “clever of her. She must have figured out Voldemort would be angered as soon as his plans were foiled, and so he would appear.”

Harry doesn’t know if he’d call that clever more than _calculated_. Not that he’d liked being possessed, but then she’d urged him to Occlude the entire time.

Dumbledore rises from behind his desk. From a nearby closet, he takes a Pensieve and places it upon the desk. Then, with his wand against his temple, Dumbledore gently pulls out a silvery string and places it in the Pensieve to watch it whirl.

“You see, Harry, a prophecy has to be made _to_ someone,” Dumbledore explains.

Out of the pensive, a thin figure ascends, her eyes made too large by her glasses. _Sybill P. Trelawney._  Harry curses himself, because it’s not like he hadn’t heard the entire list of the headmaster’s names; they fit perfectly with A.P.W.B.D.

Professor Trelawney speaks, “ _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies—and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not—and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives. The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..._ ”

She sinks back into the Pensieve. Dumbledore retrieves the memory in absolute silence. Harry feels like his heart has sunk into an abyss.

Glumly, he says, “Neville was born at the end of July.” He knows because he’s gone shopping for a present.

He means it entirely petulantly, of course, but Dumbledore goes and ruins it. “And his parents had thrice defied Voldemort, during their time with the Order.”

Internally, Harry curses. “Yet Voldemort went after _me._ ”

“I’m afraid that is the part where the prophecy stated he would ‘mark him as his equal’. I’m very sorry, Harry.”

Suddenly, Harry wants to leave, run. It comes to him now, that Salah had argued—Professor Oswin had argued that Harry is no weapon, that he isn’t to be a murderer, but— _neither can live while the other survives._ He will have to kill Voldemort.

A tear trickles down to Dumbledore’s silver beard.


	17. The Unfolding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So ends another year at Hogwarts. A new adventure stares back at Harry, and perhaps this summer will be better than the ones before.

The  _ Prophet  _ still blazes with news of Voldemort’s return when Harry goes down for lunch. As this news is roughly a year old to him, he ignores it in favour of his food, for which he doesn’t actually have the appetite. It’s not until Ginny thrusts the paper in his face does he bother to read, and she’s not pointing at the headline.

_ Minister Fudge to resign amidst turmoil _ , the paper tells him. It actually lifts his spirits.

“That took long,” he says to Ginny.

“Well, he can’t save himself from this.” She grins. “The king of Spain must be overjoyed. I’d be dancing!”

Not a single word is spent on Salah’s reveal, however. Possibly, they’ve tried to bury it; even the article mentioning the overturn of Sirius’ sentence is small, pushed into a corner. He catches Professor Oswin’s eye, and the man seems to know exactly what Harry means, because he rolls his eyes.

Chatter rises in the Great Hall; the students are practically done eating. It’s not quite the final feast yet, but the end of term is nigh, and Harry’s ready to  _ go. _

A flash of green fire silences everyone. In a whirl of black robes and that self-same green fire, Salah emerges. She stands in front of the staff table, with teachers who look shocked, and one Professor Oswin who looks like he’s about to burst out laughing.

Dobby plops in next to Salah.

“Hello,” says Salah. “So you’ve heard of me, have you?”

Harry is tempted to drop a pin just to see whether it implodes the room. He doesn’t even  _ own _ a pin, and more’s the pity for that.

Dobby says, “This is being Marchioness Salah Alaia Zaahir of the noble Casa Serpentina, Countess of a hidden county, Emerald Dragon, and Founder of Hogwarts.”

Nearly everyone has since heard Hermione proclaim House Elves’ lack of ability to lie, unless they are instructed to do so by their master. As Dumbledore is still master over Dobby…

And honestly? Salah does a good job of appearing as an ancient Witch of great power, dressed in her gold-embroidered robes and a delicate circlet atop her head. It would have helped her cause to have a serpent with her.

She says, “Here I am. What say you?”

A first year Hufflepuff, the nearest, raises her hand. Timidly, she asks, “Are you really Salazar Slytherin?”

“No, my dear,” says Salah, “Salazar Slytherin is a fiction. A  _ myth _ , let us say. Nothing you’ve heard of him is true for me. Frankly, nothing you’ve heard of the founders is even close to being true. Let’s not even begin on the omissions…”

Nobody speaks. They listen intently now. Salah looks them over, all the young faces. She catches Harry’s eyes and smiles.

“You see,” she says, “Sometime in the sixteenth century, a certain group of people started to think themselves superior to everyone else. Yes, I am talking about the start of Britain’s expansion,” she adds, “because slavery, slave trade, and imperialism did much damage to the imagination of this country. Out of a need to feel even further above the rest, certain magicians thought they could elevate themselves if their bloodline contained magicians only.”

“Purebloods,” someone from the Slytherin table says.

Salah nods. “So here we are. It was much easier to write into history someone who supports their views, someone so divorced from reality, that he would fit a certain narrative. And of course it had to be a man—not like my brother and I were confused for each other every other week.”

It gets a few jitters. She continues, “Of course, to fit this narrow idea of history, they had to rewrite all of us—brave Gryffindor, wise Ravenclaw, soft Hufflepuff, cunning Slytherin. Now, that’s not to say we were none of those things, though I’d like to add that Helga could very easily and swiftly run someone through with a sword, and honestly the Scots did fear her—we were all those things. But we’re also human. We’re complex, we had lives. Nothing about us is simple.”

“Wait can you go back to Helga Hufflepuff running someone through with a sword?” Susan Bones calls from the Hufflepuff table.

“Which time?” says Salah. “Oh, I’ll tell the tales, but not now. You see, these histories you’ve learned have distorted us. I’m now said to have been a Pureblood. I am not. I am said to have left Hogwarts after a row with Godric, and left behind a secret basilisk. I did not.”

Harry’s heart thuds in his chest. He’d come face to face with that basilisk.  _ Adorada, _ Salah had called her. If she’d not left here there, who—

“We received Adorada as a wedding gift,” Salah explains. “She grew up here, vowed to protect the students. She would last as long as Hogwarts, perhaps even longer.” She takes a shaky breath. “Then, sometime in 1943, Tom Riddle mutilated my gift—cut out both pairs of eyelids. Adorada couldn’t eat if she petrified everything in her wake. She starved. Voldemort could claim his first kill.”

_ How had she even discovered all this. _ One of the memories she’d seen from him had involved the basilisk, yes, but how could she have figured all this out? Had she gone down to the Chamber? She must have spoken to Myrtle, then.

“You may think me to be evil,” says Salah, “and that is your choice. Hogwarts has become unrecognisable to me. We were not supposed to interfere once our children took over the reigns, but those children are long gone. I have decided to take back what I built. I do not like what I see.”

If the pause is for drama, it certainly has an effect. Harry has never been so tense.

“Division. Students fighting over trivial things—points, for a cup never intended but anything as a Quidditch trophy. Students hating each other over things as silly as their ‘blood’, over the colour of their  _ scarves _ …”

A murmur descends upon the Hall. Salah watches them for a brief minute before she raises her hand, effectively quieting them.

“Now, administratively, of course, it’s efficient to divide you into four Houses, each with its own supervisory Head to look over you. This was never our goal, however, as we feared it would create exactly this.” She gestures to the Hall. “We taught all. Those wishing for specific Masteries could become our apprentices, but we never put our students into separate wings and called this a House. It was anathema.”

Hermione raises her hand with such speed she almost wacks Ron in the face. “What about the Sorting Hat, then?”

“The so—oh Godric’s hat!” Suddenly, Salah seems far less enthused and more exasperated. “Well, I wasn’t there. I’d just given birth to our firstborn, and Rowena tended to me. Helga and Godric—that still feels like a dangerous beginning to any tale—Helga and Godric went and got piss drunk. And suddenly the hat became sentient. Mind you, Boden wasn’t happy about it either.”

Someone from Hufflepuff asks, "The Hat has a name?"

"Of course he does," Salah tells them. "You don't go accidentally making things sentient and don't ask for their name. That's just rude."

This causes another wave of murmurs. Hermione sits back, eyebrows up. “That certainly wasn’t what I expected.”

 

Now Ginny raises her hand. “When you say ‘our’ firstborn, do you mean to say you and Godric Gryffindor…”

“Yes,” says Salah, far too happy in Harry’s opinion. “We were handfasted.”

The entire hall bursts into cacophony.

 

***

They wait for him outside, with his luggage. Salah’s dressed differently now, though still as elegant as before. To his surprise, Professor Oswin wears something other than jeans and flannel—an emerald vest to match Salah’s silk blouse, and beige trousers well-fitted to his waist and legs. He holds his coat thrown over his shoulder.

“There you are,” says Salah. “Have you said your goodbyes to everyone?”

He had, in fact, just seen Ron and Hermione off on the Hogwarts Express. Aside from the professors and Salah, no one else remains.

“Yeah,” he says. “Where are we going?”

“Well, hopefully, home.” Professor Oswin lifts a suitcase. “Winky will meet us there. How  _ did _ you wrangle her from under Dumbledore’s nose?”

“She  _ loves _ me,” Salah says dramatically. “We can’t bear to be parted.”

Harry laughs, for all that it’s true. They walk down to where a carriage awaits them; two thestrals are set to pull it. They look different, somehow; they’re not any of the ones he’d seen in the Forbidden Forest. They even  _ feel _ different.

“These are mine,” Professor Oswin says as he loads the carriage. “I bred them and trained them. I’d rather no one get the directions to our home.” He pats the horses and smiles; Harry is blindingly reminded that Professor Oswin is terribly handsome.

He may have said that out loud. Salah is laughing.

“Thank you!” says the professor. “People usually seem too scared to share that sentiment with me.”

They climb into the carriage—Salah first, then Harry who takes seat next to her, and finally Professor Oswin, who sits across. A moment later, the horses begin to trot, then take flight. It’s much smoother than the ride to London, perhaps because he’s not  _ on _ either of the creatures.

Harry looks outside. The day is bright with sun and nearly cloudless. He has absolutely no sense of which direction they fly in other than ‘away from Hogwarts’. Salah and Professor Oswin seem to talk to each other in glances; more than once, he catches Salah hiding a smile.

_ Legilimency? _ It could be. It certainly seems a secure way to communicate, if one knows how to go about it. He decides to ask.

“Professor—”

“Godric,” says he.

It’s possible Harry’s heart stops beating, but since he still lives, it must have been a mere skipped beat. He stares at the man before him, grinning with his slightly crooked teeth, and it’s like a bloody revelation.

_ We were handfasted, _ Harry hears Salah say. The chaos had been astounding, unfathomable.  _ A spy, _ Dumbledore had called Harold Oswin,  _ my husband, _ Salah had claimed afterwards.

“You’ve broken him,” Salah says, as if it’s the funniest thing in the world.

“I have done no such thing.”

Harry relearns how to breathe deeply. “You’re Godric Gryffindor?”

“Godric Hereweald Oswine of Griffon’s Door. Pleased to meet you.”

_ Hereweald Oswine, _ thinks Harry,  _ Harold Oswin. _ It’s clever; nobody had ever told them that the founders have such mundane things as second names. They’re legends, their names simplified to the bare sound.

“Pleasure,” Harry says on reflex. Then, “Am I to expect more founders to still be alive?”

“No,” says Salah. “We’re the only two left.”

“How  _ are _ you—” he doesn’t even know how to phrase the question. Alive? Resuscitated? Are they undead, like vampires? Are they immortal?

Professor— _ Godric _ says, “We made a little deal with an enigma. It’s made us immortal, after a fashion. We age, mind you,” he grins. “We age  _ slowly _ .”

Neither really looks like they’ve seen fifty. They must be over a millenia old, and Harry  _ would _ calculate it if he could just remember what years Binns had claimed they had been born. Except, Harry realises quickly, Binns hadn’t said anything on that subject; everyone just knows Hogwarts had been founded in 993, and by then the founders were said to already be of advanced age.

But that can’t be true, if Salah had had a child at Hogwarts. Can it?

“So,” he says conversationally, “how old were you when you founded Hogwarts?”

“Eighteen,” says Salah.

“Seventeen,” says Godric.

Harry doesn’t really know what to tackle first—their extreme youth at the time, or the fact that Godric is a year younger. Godric robs him of the chance by launching into the history of it with enthusiasm.

“Granted, times were different then. We’d gotten our Masteries at age fourteen. I took a bit longer because of—circumstances,” he glances at Salah, “so I had mine at fifteen. Sal and I met at ages seventeen and sixteen, respectively. Not long after, Rowena came along, aged twenty and mother of a lovely little gal. Then came Helga, the youngest of us at fifteen, fleeing from her mother’s clutches.”

“Myrddin had gathered us up in Scotland—” says Salah

“Alba,” says Godric, “it was still just Alba at the time—it didn’t become Scotland until the late Middle Ages.”

“Yes,” Salah says, a pointed look at Godric. “We gathered under an ancient and wizened teacher,” here Godric snorts, which gains him another pointed look. “Myrddin instructed us to build something new, something like a nexus. Something that would bring people together and strengthen ties between magical communities. We decided on a school.”

“Wait,” says Harry, as the name  _ Myrddin _ dances in his head, “did Merlin bring you all together? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes,” Godric says easily. “He’d seen a few centuries, and he wanted to leave behind something. He had no children.  _ We _ were his legacy, as Hogwarts is ours.”

“It took us a year to figure it all out,” says Salah, “to get to know each other. Godric and I were already lovers around then. Helga went and found us a castle—an old thing, that. It had seen better days. We cleaned it up, expanded…”

“And in the spring of 993, we opened the doors to Hugiweard. Helga came with the name,” says Godric. “Spirit guard. Well, spirit among other things. We all thought it was lovely. We often had her name things.”   
  
“Not our children, obviously,” says Salah. “Some things are truly sacred.”   
  
Godric snorts. “You’d never say that to her face.”   
  
“Where’s her nearest painting?”   


Helena, Rowena’s daughter, was the first students of Hugiweard, little though she was then—barely commencing her third year, but already showing great promise. She could be found wandering the grounds during the day, conversing with the elemental spirits that hung about. _Like_ _Luna and her nargles_ , Harry thinks, not that he wants to entertain the thought of Luna as an Elemental Speaker. She is terrifyingly ethereal as is. 

It wasn’t long before Hogwarts became known even across the sea. As the Christian church had grown ever more strict, ever more hostile to anything they deemed unholy, an affront to God, parents from everywhere had sent their children, and so Hogwarts had become a true sanctuary.

Caught up in the story as he is, he doesn’t even feel them land. It’s that they stop moving completely, and Harry looks outside to see a field stretch out before him, an unending sea of green.

“I can stretch my legs!” Godric announces, and does just that. He helps Harry and Salah out of the carriage.

The thestrals trot along and away, revealing a house so huge it is verifiable a mansion; the Dursleys would go green with envy at the sight of it. It’s old, beige stone, with a marble path leading up to the stairs at the front. The roof is dark red.

Winky comes running down the steps. “You’re here!”

“Yes,” says Salah, smiling. “Welcome home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends the first installment! Hope you guys enjoyed this ride with me.
> 
> I will be taking a break from posting as I try to finish up the second part (which is currently...70-75% done). I can't say for certain when I'll start posting again, but if by February 2019 it's still quiet, feel free to prod me over on tumblr. Or before that time even! I'm bel-ennui over there.
> 
> Cheers!
> 
> [Edit] So tumblr is happily nuking itself and theoretically I won't be affected but lollll stayed tuned I guess. At least I can still post here


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